fredbassett (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
fredbassett) wrote2016-02-14 09:06 pm
fredbassett) wrote2016-02-14 09:06 pm
Entry tags:
Fic, A Dangerous Delivery, Part 4 of 7, The Musketeers, 15
Title : A Dangerous Delivery, Part 4 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.
The night watch passed without incident. Neither Athos nor d’Artagnan left the corridor outside the Queen’s rooms. When either of them needed to piss, they simply made use of a narrow window that looked down onto the castle wall. Moonlight finally gave way to the grey light of dawn, followed later by a sun that was already promising more warmth to come.
Françoise d’Hauteville was the first to attend the Queen. She smiled at both Athos and d’Artagnan and entered the rooms quietly, remarking that after the exhaustion of travel and the commotion of the previous night she was sure that the Queen would wish to sleep later than usual.
Athos returned her smile. She was an easy woman to like. As soon as Aramis and Porthos arrived to relieve them, he would be glad of some sleep, himself.
A moment later, the woman backed out into the corridor, a look of shock and disbelief on her face. “Have either of you left your post, even for a minute?”
“Neither of us has left this corridor,” d’Artagnan replied swiftly.
“Is anything amiss with the Queen?” Athos demanded, stepping towards the door, his hand reaching automatically for his sword hilt.
“Still sleeping,” she reassured him, a hand pressed to his chest. “But the furniture has moved.”
Athos sidestepped her restraining hand to see for himself.
A large bed surrounded by heavy red and gold drapes dominated the room. In the fireplace on one wall, logs smouldered, burnt down now to embers, but still keeping any night time chill at bay. Four chairs, upholstered in red and gold to match the drapes, were lined up along one wall, and two large chests were pressed up against the opposite wall.
The Queen’s lady in waiting was correct. The position of certain items furniture was indeed different. When Athos had last seen this room during his tour of all the accommodation intended for royal use the previous day, the chairs had been clustered around the fireplace and at least one of the chests had been against the wall that abutted the corridor, but that spot was now bare.
He drew in his breath sharply and shared a look of incredulity with d’Artagnan. At all times during the night, one of them had had their eyes on the doorway to the Queen’s room and that of her night maid the entire time. There was simply no possibility of anyone having paid a clandestine visit to the royal chamber.
“We must return the furniture to its previous position,” Françoise d’Hauteville instructed in a low voice. “I will not have the queen alarmed when she awakens, not after the upset of last night.”
Athos had his doubts that they could successfully move the items without waking the sleeping woman, but with the aid of Porthos and Aramis, they were able to accomplish their task in relative silence, trusting to the heavy drapes around the bed to muffle the noises they were making.
In the midst of their efforts, the connecting door to the maid’s room opened. The girl stood there, her mouth gaping open like a stranded fish.
As she drew in her breath to scream, Aramis crossed the room in two long strides and clamped his hand firmly over her mouth, pushing her back into her own room and closing the door behind them.
“Always was good with women,” Porthos muttered.
To Athos’ amazement, they were able to restore the room to its previous look and retire from the queen’s chamber without waking her. Under the stern gaze of Françoise d’Hauteville, the young maid was allowed to go about her duties, readying the queen’s clothes for the day and removing night soil from the room. Leaving two other musketeers on duty, Athos gestured to his friends to follow him.
Relinquishing their places outside the rooms to two of their comrades, the four musketeers retired to the room Athos shared with Treville to share news of what had happened in the night.
The captain heard them out, a look of increasing incredulity on this face. “Ghosts that move furniture? Find me a more mundane explanation for this mischief,” he ordered.
“The housekeeper and young master Philippe,” Athos said.
“But how?” Aramis said, still fingering the cross around his neck and looking troubled.
“At the moment, I have absolutely no idea,” Athos admitted. “But when the Queen is out of her bedroom, I have every intention of finding out.”
By mid-morning, with the Queen was safely ensconced in the library with her ladies under the watchful eyes of Porthos and d’Artagnan, Athos and Aramis were left to commence a search of the bedroom. Rugs were pulled back from the floor, but revealed no hidden trapdoors. The chimney was checked for hiding places and Aramis even crawled under the bed, under the amused eyes of Athos who commented that his friend clearly had more experience with such pastimes than he had.
A hand emerged, made a rude gesture, and then retracted. Minutes later, Aramis slid out and shook his head. “The housekeeper might have a face to curdle milk, but there is admirably little dust. I have exacting standards where the underside of beds are concerned.”
“And a great deal of experience. Tell me, my friend, is such a lack of dust usual, even in the best run establishments?”
Aramis looked puzzled but shook his head. “No. What are you getting at, Athos?”
“Dust leaves behind traces of someone’s presence.”
“And this room is as clean as a virgin’s…”
“Quite. Every corner swept clean, every ledge wiped down. Not a single finger mark left behind.” Athos shrugged. “I have no idea at all what it might mean, other than a zealous housekeeper and a royal visitor, but…”
“But you have not attained your advanced age without suspecting everyone and everything…”
It was Athos’s turn to make a rude gesture.
The sound of hurrying footsteps down the corridor drew both men’s attention.
D’Artagnan appeared in the doorway, his dark eyes looking troubled. “Athos, Aramis… strange things have happened in the library…”
“The Queen?” Athos demanded.
“Is fine, but her ladies – with the exception of the redoubtable Madame d’Hauteville – are making something of a fuss…”
“And you expect me to deal with them?”
D’Artagnan grinned. “No, but only because Treville is there now. I met him first.”
Aramis winced in an exaggerated manner. “The captain is a man of many virtues but…”
“…he doesn’t suffer fools gladly,” Athos finished.
“Or at all,” d’Artagnan commented ruefully, having been on the receiving end of their captain’s tongue on more than one occasion. Not that it had ever succeeded in tempering the young Gascon’s habit of being on first name terms with trouble.
Without waiting for an explanation, Athos set off down the long corridor at a run, taking the stone stairs two at a time in his haste to reach the wood-panelled library.
The sound of loud sobs could be heard as soon as they turned the final corner and, as they drew closer, an imperious – and clearly extremely irritated – voice snapped, “Colette, stop that ridiculous noise or I will slap you myself!”
Schooling his features into a mask of polite concern instead of giving way to an amused desire to see the Queen make good on her threat, Athos entered the library at speed just in time to see a book leap, apparently of its own volition, off a high shelf.
Only the speed of Porthos’ reactions prevented the large, leather-bound volume striking the Queen as she stood in front of her hysterical lady-in-waiting, her hand raised.
Treville let loose a curse normally reserved for the training yard and swept the Queen behind him as more books flew from shelves all around the room, hitting the floor with heavy thuds. Several of the ladies were struck as they scrabbled away, shrieking loudly. Even Françoise d’Hauteville looked ashen-faced by the time the women had been ushered out into the corridor. Hélène de Beaune was white and shaking in the midst of the clutch of frightened women and clearly had no idea of what was causing the antics of the books.
Without conscious thought, Athos drew his dagger and stared around him at the hail of leather-bound volumes. One struck Aramis on the back of the head, drawing another curse unsuitable for the ears of a noblewoman but despite their vigilance they were still no nearer to identifying an enemy.
With a roar of frustration, Porthos grabbed one of the flying books and hurled it back at the shelves. The act of retaliation did nothing to stem the tide of books hurtling towards them and after a few minutes, Athos gestured to his fellow musketeers to back out of the room.
As soon as they retired from the room, the rapid-fire hail ceased, leaving behind an unnatural silence broken only by stifled sobs and quick breathing.
“I refuse to be frightened by books,” the Queen declared, stamping her foot in annoyance.
“Well-spoken, Your Majesty,” Athos said. “There is no doubt a perfectly mundane explanation for this occurrence.” As he spoke, his eyes sought out Hélène de Beaune’s face. It was little comfort to him to see that the woman looked frankly terrified. “Aramis, d’Artagnan, see the Queen, her ladies, and the Comtesse de Beaune to other rooms…”
The Queen allowed herself to be ushered away, but Athos could tell that the enforced retreat irked her. Left alone with Porthos and Treville, he prowled around the room, picking up books and turning them over in hands, wondering if there were any clues to be had in the titles, but there nothing that would have seemed out of place in an literary cabinet, although perhaps the spectre of the castle might be seen as having an uncommon affinity for Agrippa d’Aubigny, a trait it shared with one of Athos’ childhood tutors. Athos picked up Avantures du Baron de Faeneste, Confession catholique du sieur de Sancy and, by far his least favourite Sa vie à ses enfants.
“Seems wrong to throw books around,” Porthos said, prowling the room like an irate bear, poking at the wood panelling behind the shelves but failing to find any explanation for what they had just witnessed.
“If this continues, the Queen must return to Paris,” Treville said, picking up a leather-bound volume and forcibly reuniting it with a shelf.
“Good luck with tellin’ ‘er,” Porthos commented.
Staring up at the frowning countenance of yet another dark portrait of the first Comte de Beaune, Athos was inclined to agree with their captain. He had no love of practical jokes, especially not where the Queen was concerned, and the thought of someone having access to her private rooms at night was enough by itself for him to endorse Treville’s views. Flying books heavy enough to cause injury was another good reason.
The corner of the room that housed the portrait was in shadow, darker than the rest and for the briefest of moments, Athos thought he detected a strange gleam in the eye of the long-dead owner of the castle. He turned his head away, doing his best to ignore the prickle of unease that often came from a feeling of being watched. When he looked back, the Comte’s eyes were dark once more, leaving Athos wondering what trick of the light – or his imagination – had been responsible for yet another oddity in this oddest of odd castles.
With one hand resting on the hilt of his sword, Athos followed his captain from the room.
* * * * *
“Your Majesty, I beseech you…”
“No, Captain! I will not let it be said that the Queen of France took flight from books.”
“There is more to this matter than books, Your Majesty.” Treville looked deeply uneasy, no doubt not wishing to disclose to the Queen what had taken place in her own bedchamber.
Athos caught Treville’s eye and gave him a slight nod. They couldn’t keep the Queen in the dark about their concerns, not if disclosure might make her more likely to agree to return to Paris.
The Queen held up one hand, imperiously cutting Treville off the moment he opened his mouth to speak. “I am perfectly well away of the activity in my bedchamber this morning. I am neither deaf nor stupid, nor am I as heavy a sleeper as my ladies like to believe. But it would have seemed an ill-reward for my musketeers’ attempts at silence to have discomfited them with my presence while they set the room to rights. I shall ask Hélène to have another chamber made up for me. Will that satisfy you?”
Treville fought to maintain a neutral expression in the face of the Queen refusal to compromise further. He succeeded, but it was clearly hard-won battle.
A gentle smile curved the Queen’s lips. “Captain Treville, I know I have no more devoted servants than you and my musketeers, and it pains me to go against you in this, but it would pain me more to desert Hélène at this time.”
Treville’s eyes softened and he swept a bow. “Your Majesty, we are – as ever – yours to command. Will you at least allow my men to remain at your side, along with your ladies, at all times?”
“They may indeed remain with me at all times, saving only my modesty, Captain.”
The Queen held out her delicate hand and Treville took it in his scarred grasp, touching his lips lightly to her fingers, sealing their bargain. As d’Artagnan and Porthos accompanied her back into the presence of her ladies, Athos was left wondering which of them would have the dubious privilege of remaining at her side during Hélène de Beaune’s rapidly approaching confinement. From the way the woman had been holding her belly during the earlier events, he very much doubted they would have long to wait before her child decided to see what all the fuss was about.
The remainder of the day passed in tranquillity. He inspected the new room that had been prepared for the Queen, going over every inch of it with Treville and Aramis, pulling back rugs, moving every piece of furniture, tapping panels in the search for hidden ways and secret closets, but all seemed sound. By the time they declared themselves satisfied, all three of them were hot and irritable, despite the relative cool of the castle’s interior.
By the time evening came around, Athos’ nerves were strung as tight as a bow, and it was all he could do to maintain a semblance of courtly manners.
Matty Fournier, who had been left to his own devices for most of the day, had little of substance to report other than the rumours that were now spreading through the castle like rats in a barn. According to the sour-faced housekeeper, no good ever came from the presence of strangers within the castle’s walls and the events since their arrival were the Château de la Lune’s way of expressing its disquiet at the arrival of a Spanish queen and her godless retinue – a reported remark that caused Aramis to bristle with righteous indignation and the others to look on with amusement. But the reference to the Queen’s country of origin caused Treville to double the guard on the outside of her new rooms that night.
The Comtesse de Beaune, despite doing her best to maintain a brave face, was clearly exhausted, and allowed herself to be chivvied off to bed by the Queen immediately after a relatively informal evening meal in the castle’s imposing dining room, presided over by one of the ubiquitous portraits of the first Comte, who glared down from its stone walls in the company of several large and extremely lugubrious hunting dogs. Athos, who had grown up surrounded by portraits of disapproving ancestors, would have happily turned every image of the wretched man to the wall.
As a boy he’d always hated a particular portrait of the grandfather he’d never known. The man’s eyes had always seemed to follow him around the room, demanding obedience in his lessons and disapproving of any levity, or any small slip. Athos had not returned to his childhood home since the fire, but he imagined the old man defying the flames to the last. And for all he knew, the portrait still hung there, undamaged. But if he ever returned, that was something he would take great delight in rectifying.
Porthos and d’Artagnan took first watch. Treville had claimed the darkest hours of the night for himself and Athos would stand with him. It had been agreed that Françoise d’Hauteville and Marguerite de Chouy would remain with the Queen throughout the night, attended by Matty Fournier and one other page, a quiet lad of solid, Breton stock, judged to be able to keep his head in a crisis.
In the room he shared with Treville, Athos tugged off his jacket and threw it over the back of a chair. A jug of wine stood on a table, along with a platter of bread, cheese and cold meat. He ate mechanically, barely even tasting the food, but conscious of the fact that to go without would potentially compromise his strength if it became needed. Treville poured them each a goblet of heavily-watered wine and joined Athos in picking at the food. As was his custom in times of stress, the captain paced the room like a caged bear, even while eating.
“Sit or you’ll exhaust me just watching you,” Athos said, allowing the cool liquid to slake his dry throat.
He set down the goblet and rested his head on his crossed arms for a moment, feeling unusually exhausted for a day doing nothing, but knowing that if he stretched out on one of the beds, any prospect of sleep would vanish like mist in sunlight.
Treville paused in his pacing and rested on hand on Athos’ shoulder.
“Your muscles feel like knotted rope,” Treville commented. “Surely you don’t share Aramis’ superstitious fears?”
“You’ll get us hanged if the priest hears you talk like that,” Athos said, smiling despite his tension. Treville was usually able to maintain a pious front in public, but behind closed doors it was another matter.
“Then I may as well be hanged for something more worthwhile…” Treville’s fingers started to knead Athos’ shoulders, his swordsman’s hands strong and relentless.
Athos stayed supine under his captain’s ministrations, raising no objection when Treville tugged his shirt out of his breeches and over his head to work directly on his heated skin. Treville’s fingers were roughed-edged, those of a man who had spent a lifetime as a soldier, leading from amongst his men. He knew Athos’ body well, and was aware of exactly where he needed to work to relieve tension, his hands moving sometimes lightly in no more than a lover’s caress and at other times pressing so firmly that Athos could barely bite back a moan. But gradually, in the face of Treville’s determination, the stubborn tension yielded and Athos finally felt a comfortable lethargy overtake him, clearing his head and allowing his thoughts to roam freely.
“The housekeeper knows a good deal more than she is saying,” Athos said quietly. “I am certain of it.”
Treville’s fingers brushed lightly over the scars on Athos’ back, bringing pleasure where once there had been pain. “As does Philippe de Beaune. He has no liking for his father’s new wife.”
“Would that dislike run to more than a few tricks?”
“I have little experience of fathoming the minds of children.”
Athos turned his head and looked up at Treville, letting amusement quirk his lips. “Nonsense. As you like to remind us, you endure our antics on a daily basis. But to answer my own question, if, as Matty Fournier believes, Philippe thinks himself ousted in his father’s affections then maybe there is more to this than simple tricks.”
“Ousted by the new wife or by the impending arrival of by a new baby?”
Athos sighed and closed his eyes against unwanted memories that jostled for attention. “It could be either… or both.”
As much as Athos had loved his younger brother, it had been hard at times not to feel jealousy. So much duty heaped on the shoulders of the eldest while the younger brother flourished as if in constant sunlight, less prone to make mistakes born of an eagerness to please.
Athos felt a soft kiss pressed to the back of his neck and Treville’s fingers started to comb gently through his hair. He allowed the feeling of gentle relaxation to deepen, chasing away memories he preferred to leave safely buried. If possible, he would try to spend time with the boy the next day, to see if the carefully-constructed barricades could be dismantled. The lad had seemed more open in the company of the soldiers, drawn to them despite his apparent desire to maintain an aloof demeanour.
A gentle tug on his sweat-soaked hair brought him back to the moment. “Lie down on the bed, that way your neck will suffer less.”
Athos stood, taking advantage of the closeness to draw Treville’s head close for a languid kiss. It was too hot to contemplate taking pleasure in more energetic ways, and their presence could easily be demanded at a moment’s notice, but he enjoyed the simple press of lips and bodies, letting the tension engendered by the castle and its inhabitants slip from him. Their foreheads rested together for a moment, before Athos did as he’d been bidden and sprawled out on the bed, the clean linen cool against his chest.
“Am I your servant now?” his captain grumbled good-naturedly, as he bent to haul off the boots Athos had lacked the will to discard.
Athos’ only reply was a wordless grunt of appreciation before sleep claimed him.
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.
The night watch passed without incident. Neither Athos nor d’Artagnan left the corridor outside the Queen’s rooms. When either of them needed to piss, they simply made use of a narrow window that looked down onto the castle wall. Moonlight finally gave way to the grey light of dawn, followed later by a sun that was already promising more warmth to come.
Françoise d’Hauteville was the first to attend the Queen. She smiled at both Athos and d’Artagnan and entered the rooms quietly, remarking that after the exhaustion of travel and the commotion of the previous night she was sure that the Queen would wish to sleep later than usual.
Athos returned her smile. She was an easy woman to like. As soon as Aramis and Porthos arrived to relieve them, he would be glad of some sleep, himself.
A moment later, the woman backed out into the corridor, a look of shock and disbelief on her face. “Have either of you left your post, even for a minute?”
“Neither of us has left this corridor,” d’Artagnan replied swiftly.
“Is anything amiss with the Queen?” Athos demanded, stepping towards the door, his hand reaching automatically for his sword hilt.
“Still sleeping,” she reassured him, a hand pressed to his chest. “But the furniture has moved.”
Athos sidestepped her restraining hand to see for himself.
A large bed surrounded by heavy red and gold drapes dominated the room. In the fireplace on one wall, logs smouldered, burnt down now to embers, but still keeping any night time chill at bay. Four chairs, upholstered in red and gold to match the drapes, were lined up along one wall, and two large chests were pressed up against the opposite wall.
The Queen’s lady in waiting was correct. The position of certain items furniture was indeed different. When Athos had last seen this room during his tour of all the accommodation intended for royal use the previous day, the chairs had been clustered around the fireplace and at least one of the chests had been against the wall that abutted the corridor, but that spot was now bare.
He drew in his breath sharply and shared a look of incredulity with d’Artagnan. At all times during the night, one of them had had their eyes on the doorway to the Queen’s room and that of her night maid the entire time. There was simply no possibility of anyone having paid a clandestine visit to the royal chamber.
“We must return the furniture to its previous position,” Françoise d’Hauteville instructed in a low voice. “I will not have the queen alarmed when she awakens, not after the upset of last night.”
Athos had his doubts that they could successfully move the items without waking the sleeping woman, but with the aid of Porthos and Aramis, they were able to accomplish their task in relative silence, trusting to the heavy drapes around the bed to muffle the noises they were making.
In the midst of their efforts, the connecting door to the maid’s room opened. The girl stood there, her mouth gaping open like a stranded fish.
As she drew in her breath to scream, Aramis crossed the room in two long strides and clamped his hand firmly over her mouth, pushing her back into her own room and closing the door behind them.
“Always was good with women,” Porthos muttered.
To Athos’ amazement, they were able to restore the room to its previous look and retire from the queen’s chamber without waking her. Under the stern gaze of Françoise d’Hauteville, the young maid was allowed to go about her duties, readying the queen’s clothes for the day and removing night soil from the room. Leaving two other musketeers on duty, Athos gestured to his friends to follow him.
Relinquishing their places outside the rooms to two of their comrades, the four musketeers retired to the room Athos shared with Treville to share news of what had happened in the night.
The captain heard them out, a look of increasing incredulity on this face. “Ghosts that move furniture? Find me a more mundane explanation for this mischief,” he ordered.
“The housekeeper and young master Philippe,” Athos said.
“But how?” Aramis said, still fingering the cross around his neck and looking troubled.
“At the moment, I have absolutely no idea,” Athos admitted. “But when the Queen is out of her bedroom, I have every intention of finding out.”
By mid-morning, with the Queen was safely ensconced in the library with her ladies under the watchful eyes of Porthos and d’Artagnan, Athos and Aramis were left to commence a search of the bedroom. Rugs were pulled back from the floor, but revealed no hidden trapdoors. The chimney was checked for hiding places and Aramis even crawled under the bed, under the amused eyes of Athos who commented that his friend clearly had more experience with such pastimes than he had.
A hand emerged, made a rude gesture, and then retracted. Minutes later, Aramis slid out and shook his head. “The housekeeper might have a face to curdle milk, but there is admirably little dust. I have exacting standards where the underside of beds are concerned.”
“And a great deal of experience. Tell me, my friend, is such a lack of dust usual, even in the best run establishments?”
Aramis looked puzzled but shook his head. “No. What are you getting at, Athos?”
“Dust leaves behind traces of someone’s presence.”
“And this room is as clean as a virgin’s…”
“Quite. Every corner swept clean, every ledge wiped down. Not a single finger mark left behind.” Athos shrugged. “I have no idea at all what it might mean, other than a zealous housekeeper and a royal visitor, but…”
“But you have not attained your advanced age without suspecting everyone and everything…”
It was Athos’s turn to make a rude gesture.
The sound of hurrying footsteps down the corridor drew both men’s attention.
D’Artagnan appeared in the doorway, his dark eyes looking troubled. “Athos, Aramis… strange things have happened in the library…”
“The Queen?” Athos demanded.
“Is fine, but her ladies – with the exception of the redoubtable Madame d’Hauteville – are making something of a fuss…”
“And you expect me to deal with them?”
D’Artagnan grinned. “No, but only because Treville is there now. I met him first.”
Aramis winced in an exaggerated manner. “The captain is a man of many virtues but…”
“…he doesn’t suffer fools gladly,” Athos finished.
“Or at all,” d’Artagnan commented ruefully, having been on the receiving end of their captain’s tongue on more than one occasion. Not that it had ever succeeded in tempering the young Gascon’s habit of being on first name terms with trouble.
Without waiting for an explanation, Athos set off down the long corridor at a run, taking the stone stairs two at a time in his haste to reach the wood-panelled library.
The sound of loud sobs could be heard as soon as they turned the final corner and, as they drew closer, an imperious – and clearly extremely irritated – voice snapped, “Colette, stop that ridiculous noise or I will slap you myself!”
Schooling his features into a mask of polite concern instead of giving way to an amused desire to see the Queen make good on her threat, Athos entered the library at speed just in time to see a book leap, apparently of its own volition, off a high shelf.
Only the speed of Porthos’ reactions prevented the large, leather-bound volume striking the Queen as she stood in front of her hysterical lady-in-waiting, her hand raised.
Treville let loose a curse normally reserved for the training yard and swept the Queen behind him as more books flew from shelves all around the room, hitting the floor with heavy thuds. Several of the ladies were struck as they scrabbled away, shrieking loudly. Even Françoise d’Hauteville looked ashen-faced by the time the women had been ushered out into the corridor. Hélène de Beaune was white and shaking in the midst of the clutch of frightened women and clearly had no idea of what was causing the antics of the books.
Without conscious thought, Athos drew his dagger and stared around him at the hail of leather-bound volumes. One struck Aramis on the back of the head, drawing another curse unsuitable for the ears of a noblewoman but despite their vigilance they were still no nearer to identifying an enemy.
With a roar of frustration, Porthos grabbed one of the flying books and hurled it back at the shelves. The act of retaliation did nothing to stem the tide of books hurtling towards them and after a few minutes, Athos gestured to his fellow musketeers to back out of the room.
As soon as they retired from the room, the rapid-fire hail ceased, leaving behind an unnatural silence broken only by stifled sobs and quick breathing.
“I refuse to be frightened by books,” the Queen declared, stamping her foot in annoyance.
“Well-spoken, Your Majesty,” Athos said. “There is no doubt a perfectly mundane explanation for this occurrence.” As he spoke, his eyes sought out Hélène de Beaune’s face. It was little comfort to him to see that the woman looked frankly terrified. “Aramis, d’Artagnan, see the Queen, her ladies, and the Comtesse de Beaune to other rooms…”
The Queen allowed herself to be ushered away, but Athos could tell that the enforced retreat irked her. Left alone with Porthos and Treville, he prowled around the room, picking up books and turning them over in hands, wondering if there were any clues to be had in the titles, but there nothing that would have seemed out of place in an literary cabinet, although perhaps the spectre of the castle might be seen as having an uncommon affinity for Agrippa d’Aubigny, a trait it shared with one of Athos’ childhood tutors. Athos picked up Avantures du Baron de Faeneste, Confession catholique du sieur de Sancy and, by far his least favourite Sa vie à ses enfants.
“Seems wrong to throw books around,” Porthos said, prowling the room like an irate bear, poking at the wood panelling behind the shelves but failing to find any explanation for what they had just witnessed.
“If this continues, the Queen must return to Paris,” Treville said, picking up a leather-bound volume and forcibly reuniting it with a shelf.
“Good luck with tellin’ ‘er,” Porthos commented.
Staring up at the frowning countenance of yet another dark portrait of the first Comte de Beaune, Athos was inclined to agree with their captain. He had no love of practical jokes, especially not where the Queen was concerned, and the thought of someone having access to her private rooms at night was enough by itself for him to endorse Treville’s views. Flying books heavy enough to cause injury was another good reason.
The corner of the room that housed the portrait was in shadow, darker than the rest and for the briefest of moments, Athos thought he detected a strange gleam in the eye of the long-dead owner of the castle. He turned his head away, doing his best to ignore the prickle of unease that often came from a feeling of being watched. When he looked back, the Comte’s eyes were dark once more, leaving Athos wondering what trick of the light – or his imagination – had been responsible for yet another oddity in this oddest of odd castles.
With one hand resting on the hilt of his sword, Athos followed his captain from the room.
* * * * *
“Your Majesty, I beseech you…”
“No, Captain! I will not let it be said that the Queen of France took flight from books.”
“There is more to this matter than books, Your Majesty.” Treville looked deeply uneasy, no doubt not wishing to disclose to the Queen what had taken place in her own bedchamber.
Athos caught Treville’s eye and gave him a slight nod. They couldn’t keep the Queen in the dark about their concerns, not if disclosure might make her more likely to agree to return to Paris.
The Queen held up one hand, imperiously cutting Treville off the moment he opened his mouth to speak. “I am perfectly well away of the activity in my bedchamber this morning. I am neither deaf nor stupid, nor am I as heavy a sleeper as my ladies like to believe. But it would have seemed an ill-reward for my musketeers’ attempts at silence to have discomfited them with my presence while they set the room to rights. I shall ask Hélène to have another chamber made up for me. Will that satisfy you?”
Treville fought to maintain a neutral expression in the face of the Queen refusal to compromise further. He succeeded, but it was clearly hard-won battle.
A gentle smile curved the Queen’s lips. “Captain Treville, I know I have no more devoted servants than you and my musketeers, and it pains me to go against you in this, but it would pain me more to desert Hélène at this time.”
Treville’s eyes softened and he swept a bow. “Your Majesty, we are – as ever – yours to command. Will you at least allow my men to remain at your side, along with your ladies, at all times?”
“They may indeed remain with me at all times, saving only my modesty, Captain.”
The Queen held out her delicate hand and Treville took it in his scarred grasp, touching his lips lightly to her fingers, sealing their bargain. As d’Artagnan and Porthos accompanied her back into the presence of her ladies, Athos was left wondering which of them would have the dubious privilege of remaining at her side during Hélène de Beaune’s rapidly approaching confinement. From the way the woman had been holding her belly during the earlier events, he very much doubted they would have long to wait before her child decided to see what all the fuss was about.
The remainder of the day passed in tranquillity. He inspected the new room that had been prepared for the Queen, going over every inch of it with Treville and Aramis, pulling back rugs, moving every piece of furniture, tapping panels in the search for hidden ways and secret closets, but all seemed sound. By the time they declared themselves satisfied, all three of them were hot and irritable, despite the relative cool of the castle’s interior.
By the time evening came around, Athos’ nerves were strung as tight as a bow, and it was all he could do to maintain a semblance of courtly manners.
Matty Fournier, who had been left to his own devices for most of the day, had little of substance to report other than the rumours that were now spreading through the castle like rats in a barn. According to the sour-faced housekeeper, no good ever came from the presence of strangers within the castle’s walls and the events since their arrival were the Château de la Lune’s way of expressing its disquiet at the arrival of a Spanish queen and her godless retinue – a reported remark that caused Aramis to bristle with righteous indignation and the others to look on with amusement. But the reference to the Queen’s country of origin caused Treville to double the guard on the outside of her new rooms that night.
The Comtesse de Beaune, despite doing her best to maintain a brave face, was clearly exhausted, and allowed herself to be chivvied off to bed by the Queen immediately after a relatively informal evening meal in the castle’s imposing dining room, presided over by one of the ubiquitous portraits of the first Comte, who glared down from its stone walls in the company of several large and extremely lugubrious hunting dogs. Athos, who had grown up surrounded by portraits of disapproving ancestors, would have happily turned every image of the wretched man to the wall.
As a boy he’d always hated a particular portrait of the grandfather he’d never known. The man’s eyes had always seemed to follow him around the room, demanding obedience in his lessons and disapproving of any levity, or any small slip. Athos had not returned to his childhood home since the fire, but he imagined the old man defying the flames to the last. And for all he knew, the portrait still hung there, undamaged. But if he ever returned, that was something he would take great delight in rectifying.
Porthos and d’Artagnan took first watch. Treville had claimed the darkest hours of the night for himself and Athos would stand with him. It had been agreed that Françoise d’Hauteville and Marguerite de Chouy would remain with the Queen throughout the night, attended by Matty Fournier and one other page, a quiet lad of solid, Breton stock, judged to be able to keep his head in a crisis.
In the room he shared with Treville, Athos tugged off his jacket and threw it over the back of a chair. A jug of wine stood on a table, along with a platter of bread, cheese and cold meat. He ate mechanically, barely even tasting the food, but conscious of the fact that to go without would potentially compromise his strength if it became needed. Treville poured them each a goblet of heavily-watered wine and joined Athos in picking at the food. As was his custom in times of stress, the captain paced the room like a caged bear, even while eating.
“Sit or you’ll exhaust me just watching you,” Athos said, allowing the cool liquid to slake his dry throat.
He set down the goblet and rested his head on his crossed arms for a moment, feeling unusually exhausted for a day doing nothing, but knowing that if he stretched out on one of the beds, any prospect of sleep would vanish like mist in sunlight.
Treville paused in his pacing and rested on hand on Athos’ shoulder.
“Your muscles feel like knotted rope,” Treville commented. “Surely you don’t share Aramis’ superstitious fears?”
“You’ll get us hanged if the priest hears you talk like that,” Athos said, smiling despite his tension. Treville was usually able to maintain a pious front in public, but behind closed doors it was another matter.
“Then I may as well be hanged for something more worthwhile…” Treville’s fingers started to knead Athos’ shoulders, his swordsman’s hands strong and relentless.
Athos stayed supine under his captain’s ministrations, raising no objection when Treville tugged his shirt out of his breeches and over his head to work directly on his heated skin. Treville’s fingers were roughed-edged, those of a man who had spent a lifetime as a soldier, leading from amongst his men. He knew Athos’ body well, and was aware of exactly where he needed to work to relieve tension, his hands moving sometimes lightly in no more than a lover’s caress and at other times pressing so firmly that Athos could barely bite back a moan. But gradually, in the face of Treville’s determination, the stubborn tension yielded and Athos finally felt a comfortable lethargy overtake him, clearing his head and allowing his thoughts to roam freely.
“The housekeeper knows a good deal more than she is saying,” Athos said quietly. “I am certain of it.”
Treville’s fingers brushed lightly over the scars on Athos’ back, bringing pleasure where once there had been pain. “As does Philippe de Beaune. He has no liking for his father’s new wife.”
“Would that dislike run to more than a few tricks?”
“I have little experience of fathoming the minds of children.”
Athos turned his head and looked up at Treville, letting amusement quirk his lips. “Nonsense. As you like to remind us, you endure our antics on a daily basis. But to answer my own question, if, as Matty Fournier believes, Philippe thinks himself ousted in his father’s affections then maybe there is more to this than simple tricks.”
“Ousted by the new wife or by the impending arrival of by a new baby?”
Athos sighed and closed his eyes against unwanted memories that jostled for attention. “It could be either… or both.”
As much as Athos had loved his younger brother, it had been hard at times not to feel jealousy. So much duty heaped on the shoulders of the eldest while the younger brother flourished as if in constant sunlight, less prone to make mistakes born of an eagerness to please.
Athos felt a soft kiss pressed to the back of his neck and Treville’s fingers started to comb gently through his hair. He allowed the feeling of gentle relaxation to deepen, chasing away memories he preferred to leave safely buried. If possible, he would try to spend time with the boy the next day, to see if the carefully-constructed barricades could be dismantled. The lad had seemed more open in the company of the soldiers, drawn to them despite his apparent desire to maintain an aloof demeanour.
A gentle tug on his sweat-soaked hair brought him back to the moment. “Lie down on the bed, that way your neck will suffer less.”
Athos stood, taking advantage of the closeness to draw Treville’s head close for a languid kiss. It was too hot to contemplate taking pleasure in more energetic ways, and their presence could easily be demanded at a moment’s notice, but he enjoyed the simple press of lips and bodies, letting the tension engendered by the castle and its inhabitants slip from him. Their foreheads rested together for a moment, before Athos did as he’d been bidden and sprawled out on the bed, the clean linen cool against his chest.
“Am I your servant now?” his captain grumbled good-naturedly, as he bent to haul off the boots Athos had lacked the will to discard.
Athos’ only reply was a wordless grunt of appreciation before sleep claimed him.