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fredbassettTitle : A Dangerous Delivery, Part 7 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 battle for control of the cave continued.
Like all hard-fought combats, it was unrelenting and bloody. At some point, Athos had sustained an injury to his sword arm, and he could feel warm blood tracking down his flesh, threatening to compromise his grip. But the rush of battle through his veins blocked any pain more effectively than laudanum could have done, while still leaving him in possession of his senses. The air reeked of gunpowder, blood, sweat and shit. Much the same as any battlefield he had known.
There was no time to regroup or even communicate. Each man had to trust his comrades to fight their own battles. Porthos had bloody running from a cut of his cheek, Treville appeared to be favouring one leg and there was a long gash in Philippe’s leather doublet, but the boy still fought with a deadly combination of ferocity and style.
Athos had seen no new attackers had emerged from the tunnel. The odds were now in their favour and they had a chance of ending this fight. Their opponents were tough and unwilling to back down, but Athos and his companions were fighting for the life of their Queen and they were determined that no one would get passed them into the castle.
Philippe was the first to finish his assailant. Athos was too occupied with his own battle to be aware of the details, but as his own opponent crumpled to the ground clutching his chest, he saw Philippe spring to Treville’s aid as their captain stumbled slightly, leaving an opening for the huge bear of a man he was fighting. The blade that darted forward towards Treville’s unprotected side was swiftly parried by Philippe and he engaged the man long enough for the captain to scramble to his feet and dash a handful of sand and stones at the man’s face, before burying his dagger to the hilt in his opponent’s chest.
Porthos, not to be outdone, let out one of his famous yells and drove his attacker back towards the wall of the cave, leaving him nowhere to go and little room to manoeuvre. In Athos’ mind, the outcome was never in doubt. The man was no match for Porthos in strength or skill.
The sound of a pistol shot rang out above the harsh rasp of breath as Porthos drove his sword home through the thick, padded leather doublet covering his opponent’s chest. In the smoke left behind by their earlier passage of arms, Athos watched as a man standing in the entrance to the tunnel staggered and fell, the pistol he’d been pointing at Treville, unnoticed by any of them, falling from a now nerveless hand. The last of their attackers had been biding his time, hoping to take them unawares.
Athos swung around, trying to locate the position of whoever had fired the shot. The noise had come from behind him, in the direction of the steps up to the castle.
Crouched at the bottom of stone stairs, Matty Fournier stared up at him, a second loaded pistol now pointing at the floor of the cave.
“Good shooting,” Athos said. “How long have you been there?”
“Saw you kill your man,” Matty told him. The boy looked around, an awed look on his face. “It’s bad down here, but up there it’s a madhouse. The Comtesse has just popped one and the midwife says there’s another on the way. Told you she was settin’ a clutch!”
Philippe de Beaune leaned back against the wall of the cave and started to unlace his tunic to examine the damage underneath. “Is Hélène well?”
“Yes, but your father’s cock won’t be. She swears blind she’s mincing it and feeding it to the dogs – while it’s still attached to him!” As he spoke, the boy was carefully reloading his pistol, mischief warring with concentration on his face.
Philippe winced. Athos hoped it was in sympathy for his father, not for his own wounds.
“How goes the defence?” Treville demanded.
“The gate still holds and they’ve taken losses. But Aramis is certain they aim to try to blow their way inside if the gates aren’t opened for them first.”
“We need to so something,” Philippe said. He gestured to the tunnel, half-blocked with corpses. “If we take that passage it will bring us out at the base of the hill and we can come up behind them without being seen. They will not be watching that side of the track.”
Treville nodded approvingly. It was clear the captain of the musketeers had no desire to fight like a rat in a trap when they stood a chance of taking the battle to the enemy.
Porthos grinned widely. “Let’s do it.”
“Matty, take word to Aramis of what we intend,” Athos said. “I’ve no desire to have him spread my guts across the hillside when all we’re trying to do is save his sorry arse.”
“Before that, send d’Artagnan to us,” Treville said. “Five musketeers with Her Majesty will be enough when the main threat is outside the castle.” He ruffled the boy’s hair. “And as Athos said, that was good shooting. I owe you my life, whelp. There’ll be a commission in the Regiment for you when you’re old enough.”
The look of naked joy on the boy’s face brought a smile to Athos’ lips.
Matty jumped to his feet. “Yes, captain!” The boy stuck his pistol through his belt and scrambled away up the steep stone steps.
“We need to tend our wounds and strip the bodies of their pistols,” Treville ordered. “There’ll be no time to reload when we launch this attack. We take as many as we can carry.”
It was grim work. They used strips cut from their attackers’ shirts to wipe the blood from their wounds and bind the lacerations as best they could, then they dragged the dead bodies into the chamber to methodically strip them of any weapons that would be of use. Two men were still alive, but severely injured, one with half his face blown away, the other with a massive hole in his guts. Athos raised his eyebrows questioningly at Treville.
The captain shook his head and drew his dagger to end the men’s pain. Athos was not surprised. They had the housekeeper to question. They would gain little by taking captives at this stage, and it was doubtful that either would have survived for long. In the end, their deaths were kinder than they deserved.
Philippe de Beaune watched their wordless exchange, his face impassive then, when the men were dead, he calmly stripped them of daggers and pistols and started to load and prime the weapons. Matty Fourier wasn’t the only one who would make an admirable musketeer.
By taking extra belts from the dead men, they were each able to carry four loaded and primed pistols, with two spare for d’Artagnan. Athos had just finished settling the extra weaponry around his waist when he heard the sound of boots on the steps into the cave.
D’Artagnan was carrying a lighted candle and as he took in the pile of bodies and the spilt blood on the rocky floor, a look of excitement quickened in his dark eyes. “I thought I was going to miss all the action,” he exclaimed.
“Haven’t things been exciting enough for you?” Treville said.
The young Gascon grimaced. “If that’s the end result, I might never go with a woman again.”
“It’s normally the women who say that.” Porthos clapped his friend on the back. “Would we leave you out of a fight?”
“You kept this one to yourselves.”
Athos handed d’Artagnan a belt and two loaded pistols then turned to Philippe. “Tell us now what we will encounter when we leave here.”
From Philippe’s description, they would follow the tunnel down through the hillside. The exit at the bottom was previously sealed and he didn’t know how much of it the attackers had broken through. The tunnel led out to the base of the hill, behind some undergrowth. From there they could take a longer route and come up along the path, but that would leave them exposed for much of the way. Alternatively, there was a shorter, steeper route that involved some climbing. It would be difficult in the dark but not impossible.
“We take the short way,” Treville decided. “Philippe, you will lead us. D’Artagnan and Athos will follow you, then Porthos. I will bring up the rear.”
The tunnel was tall enough for all but Porthos to walk upright, wider than Athos’ shoulders by less than a hand’s breadth on either side. The lanterns they were able to carry on this part of their route showed the pale pick-marks on the walls where every step of the way had been hewn from solid rock.
At one point, the tunnel curved slightly, and Athos could see that a hole in the wall had been blocked in. He tapped Philippe on the shoulder and raised his eyebrows questioningly.
“The castle well is on the other side. We’re now directly below the courtyard.”
The labour involved in creating this escape route must have been immense. According to Philippe, the work had been done four generations ago, and had been a jealously guarded secret, known only to the Beaune family. How Boucher had discovered the entrance in the cellars beneath the castle, he didn’t know, but she had worked for first his grandfather and then his father, so he had to admit there was probably little she didn’t know about the Château de la Lune’s secrets.
As they moved ever downwards, Athos could feel some movement of air in the passage, which was a relief, as he had to admit that the encompassing rock was starting to feel oppressive. When Philippe and d’Artagnan came to a halt in front of him, Athos realised they must be close to the exit.
In a hushed voice, Philippe ordered them all to wait while he investigated the last section of passage, to ensure no guards had been stationed nearby.
They waited in silence, hands on their weapons, until Philippe returned. The way out was clear, but he had heard gunshots and cries up above them so the battle for control of the gate was still in progress. The cloud cover was patchy, and the moon was casting little light, but there had, as yet, been no rain. For that, Athos was grateful. Rain would have made the climb even more treacherous and made use of their pistols difficult, if not impossible.
The tunnel had originally ended in a blank wall, but now part of that had been knocked through, allowing them to squeeze through into a shallow cave at the base of the cliff. For Athos, slipping through the narrow gap was not hard, but for Porthos it was far more of a struggle, and the big musketeer had to divest himself of his weapons belts and jacket before being able to follow. From the other side, what was left of the obstruction was indistinguishable from the cave wall.
Marvelling at the skill of the engineers who had been able to accurately drive a tunnel through several hundred feet of solid rock and bring it out in such a small space as the cave, Athos extinguished his lamp, as did the others, to allow their eyes to become accustomed to the darkness.
When they were all ready, Philippe have the final orders. “Follow the movements of the person in front of you. Try not to dislodge any loose rock. When you reach the top, there is a small platform below the level of the track with some boulders that will provide cover.” He looked at Treville. “Beyond that, I’m in your hands.”
Treville smiled wolfishly. “Beyond that, we try to kill as many of them as we can whilst trying to remain alive.”
“Good plan.” Porthos gave a wide grin. “I like that plan.”
Philippe nodded and, without wasting words, parted the undergrowth in front of the rock shelter and slipped through, moving like a phantom in the darkness. D’Artagnan followed, with Athos behind him.
The first part of the climb was relatively easy. A narrow goat-track hugged the side of the cliff, steeply angled but still plainly a path. They moved as silently as possible in the darkness, while above them they could hear the occasional shouts and shots. In front of Athos, the path started to narrow and he suddenly realised that d’Artagnan and Philippe were no longer in front of him. They’d started the ascent of the cliff itself.
Luckily for Athos, the clouds had parted slightly, allowing pale, watery moonlight to cast silvered light on the rocks above him. Doing his best to mark where d’Artagnan has placed his feet, Athos began the ascent. It was easier than he expected, but he lived in constant dread of dislodging a rock, sending it clattering down to the valley below. Climbing with a sword at his side and burdened with four pistols was not the easiest feat to accomplish, but slowly and surely, they were all gaining height, coming closer to the ledge Philippe had described.
Athos took advantage of another break in the clouds to look up and mark the remainder of the route as best he could. He was in time to see d’Artagnan’s boots disappearing over the lip of the ledge. A few small stones came off and pattered down on Athos’s face just as he was reaching up with his hand for the next hold. At the same time, one booted foot slipped, leaving him in the precarious position of holding himself in place with only one hand. He bit back a curse, tightening the grip of his right hand on the rock. Pain ripped through his arm and Athos knew he’d reopened the bandaged wound. Setting his teeth against the pain, Athos groped for a foothold with the toe of his boot.
Panic rose in him as he felt nothing but smooth rock. Unaccustomed fear churned in his stomach. Athos flailed with his foot, desperate to find something to bear his weight as he felt his other foot start to slip. Fear of falling warned with fear of dislodging something and alerting their enemies to their presence but then a large hand from below steered his foot to a protuberance on the cliff and he was able to re-establish his precarious position on the rock face. For such a large man, Porthos seemed to be making light work of the climb and Athos was thankful for his vigilance.
A hand reached down from above and grasped his wrist. With d’Artagnan’s welcome aide, Athos hauled himself onto the ledge, doing his best to draw breath quietly, when every instinct was screaming at him to flop there like a stranded fish, gulping for air. Porthos joined him then aided the last part of Treville’s climb. In the wan moonlight, Athos could see that the captain’s face was pinched and drawn. Once on the relative safety of the ledge, his hand shook slightly as he reached down to rub the leg he had been favouring in their underground struggle. It seemed that Athos wasn’t the only one who’d had an eventful ascent. It had been hard for him but for Treville, with a leg that could not wholly be trusted, it must have been a nightmare from hell.
The lead in the phase of their enterprise had subtly shifted to the two youngest members of the group. D’Artagnan and Philippe de Beaune were crouched in the cover of rock, surveying the scene and relaying details of the assault on the main gate in tones to low to carry above the noise from the siege. The attackers had abandoned any pretence of secrecy and were doing their best to manoeuvre two large barrels of gunpowder to the gate, whilst Aramis and the castle’s defenders did their best to pick off anyone ill-advised enough to all any part of their bodies to be seen behind their large shields.
Numerous bodies lay on the ground, but the besiegers still had enough men at their disposal to be dangerous. One barrel was in place, but the battle to get the second one there was being hard-fought.
Between them, Athos and his companions had twenty pistol shots, fewer if any misfired. They would have to make every shot count. After that, they would have no choice other to engage at close-quarters and to do so would make it hard to rely on any support from above, as telling friend from foe on a dark night would not be an easy task. Their position was too precarious to allow them the luxury of reloading.
They each moved carefully into position. The ledge was large enough to allow three of them spaced out, with Athos and Treville behind them, ready to take up position when the first volley of shots was exhausted. It was important not to be close to the man next to you in case a stray spark lit the power in the wrong firing pan.
“Ready?” d’Artagnan murmured. A moment later, once he had received the affirmative from everyone, the young Gascon fired the first shot.
There was little time to think. Reactions honed by long training and combat experience took over, allowing Athos to become oblivious to the noise, the smoke and the smell of black powder. The first volley was over with startling rapidity. He and Treville came to their feet, calmly choosing their targets amongst the chaos they’d caused in the midst of the castle’s besiegers. The first man he aimed at fell, the bullet taking him in the head. Athos knew he wouldn’t rise again. The second shot went slightly wide, taken his mark in the shoulder, not the chest, but it would be enough to incapacitate.
Their enemies scrabbled to return fire, but the confusion was great, especially as musket fire kept coming from the walls, catching the besiegers between a rock and a hard place.
Athos elected to keep two loaded pistols in reserve and a glance at Treville told him the captain agreed.
“Give the signal,” Athos ordered.
D’Artagnan stuck two fingers in his mouth and let out a piercing whistle, three times in succession, the signal for a cessation in Aramis’ sniping. The noise split the air, audible even over return fire and confused cries. The shots in their direction were wild, fired with no clear target in mind and, more than anything else, told Athos that whoever was directing the operation had committed their best men to the underground attack. The rest were displaying a comforting lack of discipline.
As the sound of the whistle echoed back at them off the castle walls, d’Artagnan swept his sword from its sheath and ran at the man nearest to him. Philippe de Beaune did the same. Doing his best to keep an eye on the boy, Athos did the same, with Treville and Porthos at his side.
The besiegers were torn between still wanting to manoeuvre the second barrel of gunpowder into place and the need to defend their backs against a new and unexpected enemy. The musketeers took full advantage of the confusion, dealing death with swift brutality.
Realising that the shots from the castle wall had ceased, the thick straw shield was cast aside, allowing the men carrying the barrel to move more freely.
Porthos saw what they were doing and, with a roar, threw himself in their midst. Athos followed. The darkness turned the combat into an even more dangerous undertaking, with no quarter given. Athos despatched two men in quick succession, one stabbed through the throat, his blood spraying out from an ugly gash, the other he took with a clean thrust to the heart. But then a giant of a man sprang towards him, wielding a sword thicker and heavier than the one Athos carried, and he was suddenly hard pressed, forced to give ground.
A body on the ground caused him to stumble, falling backwards as his opponent’s sword stabbed at suddenly empty air. Athos rolled, ignoring the pain in his already-injured sword arm. The darkness was now his friend, not his foe. Around him, metal rang against metal and he could here the laboured grunts of men locked in combat. The element of surprise was gone now, but those first, lethal volleys had dropped men like over-ripe fruit from a tree and evened the odds considerably. But whether they’d done enough to carry this mad plan through, Athos had no idea. He very much doubted that the Queen’s enemies were now strong enough to take the Château de la Lune, so at least the primary objective of the rear guard had been achieved.
He rolled again as the bloodied steel of the giant’s sword struck at his face with the speed of a snake. He reminded Athos of the equally huge man who had faced Treville in the tunnels, brothers, perhaps, both with a violent enmity towards a Spanish Queen.
The man raised his sword again, and this time Athos was sure he was staring death in the face. He raised his arm to parry the blow, but his grip was weak, and he could feel the wet slick of blood on his arm. Steel slid against steel and Athos knew this was not a trial of strength he was going to win. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Athos tried without success to parry the blow, when out of the darkness loomed Porthos, barging into the man with all the finesse of a bar-room brawl, and there was none more skilled in such fighting than Porthos du Vallon.
Granted a reprieve he had not expected, Athos struggled to his feet and transferred his sword to his left hand, knowing the right would not serve him now. He glanced around, finding it increasingly difficult to distinguish any individual combats in the general mêlée, but then a flickering light caught his attention.
Men were advancing up the track, holding aloft torches.
It was not just the castle’s besiegers that had been caught between a rock and a hard place. It seemed that their position had now become even more precarious.
*****
“It’s the villagers!” Philippe de Beaune declared, wild elation in his voice.
A break in the clouds allowed weak moonlight to illuminate the track up to the castle, and Athos could see that the advancing group was indeed carrying a motley assortment of weapons, some better suited to bringing in the crops, but he had no doubt that the men would use them to good effect.
The sight of some 20 – 30 men, all armed, no matter how eccentrically, was enough to turn the tide in their favour.
“Get rid of those barrels!” Treville ordered, and Porthos and d’Artagnan promptly made a dash for the one lying against the gates, and with Treville, Athos and Philippe providing what cover they could, the barrel was rolled to the edge of the track and kicked off into darkness.
Athos heard the wood break on contact with the rocks below, spilling its lethal contents far and wide. The second soon followed.
The besiegers had lost the will for a fight and were now simply trying to escape. But the villagers had spread out across the track, and had already thrown three men to their certain death. Others had been attacked with pitchfork and billhook.
“We need prisoners!” Treville yelled. “Keep some alive if you can!”
In the ensuing struggle, that wasn’t the easiest order to obey, but Athos was able to use the handle of a spent pistol to club someone on the back of the head as they turned to flee, and Porthos was able to knock another man out with one blow of his large fist. Their captives were securely trussed with belts taken from their dead comrades and tossed to one side, while Treville continued to bark orders in the voice he used on new recruits in the garrison, employing a tone that never failed to instil order in even the most unruly of gatherings.
Treville turned his attention to Athos for a moment. “Sit down before you fall down. And keep that arm up, you’ve got blood dripping from your hand.”
Despite his weariness, Athos found it hard to hold back a grin. Treville was in his element on the occasions he was able to take the field with his men. The captain was ill-suited to the political games he was often forced into playing, and a fight seemed to take years off him every time. As their enemies had been thoroughly routed, Athos allowed himself the luxury of a seat on the thick straw shield, cradling his injured arm and trying to keep his hand upright while Treville and Philippe de Beaune took charge of the final stages of raising the siege, the musketeers happy to defer to the young vicomte. Allowing the villagers to return to their families had been a good move. The de Beaune family were unlikely to have any issues with the loyalty of those who held land from them after this night’s work.
After quietly conferring with Treville, Philippe called up to Aramis, “Open the gates!”
The castle’s defenders quickly did as they’d been bidden, and musketeers came out of the gates to take charge of the prisoners and help the wounded.
Porthos held down a large hand to Athos. “Come on. You need some of Aramis’ needlework.”
Athos grimaced, recognising the truth of his friend’s words. The cut on his arm needed cleaning and stitching.
Inside the castle, the courtyard bustled with activity. He could see some wounded, but no bodies laid out. It seemed the defenders had been careful. From the reports they were no receiving, three of the villagers had been injured in the fight, but there had been no deaths. Porthos helped draw off his bloodied jacket and pull his shirt over his head. Blood had soaked through the sleeve of his linen shirt. One of the men hauled up a bucket of cold water from the well and used it to wash the mess from Athos’ body.
Aramis inspected the wound, cleaned it with some alcohol that Athos would much preferred to have drunk and then proceeded to stitch the long, deep cut closed. After he’d bounded the wound with fresh cloth, Aramis commented. “You were lucky. How you managed to climb and fight with that wound, I’ll never know.”
“I didn’t even feel the pain,” Athos admitted. What he kept to himself was that it was now hurting like the devil himself had been jabbing at him, but that observation would be a churlish reward for Aramis’ careful attention.
“Well you’ll be feeling it now,” Aramis said, offering him the flask he used for his medicinal alcohol. “I saw you eyeing this up. One mouthful, then get yourself some fresh clothes. We need to report to the Queen.”
“It’s safe to go up there now,” Matty Fournier declared appearing beside him and earning Athos’ undying gratitude by handing him a flagon of wine.
Athos took a long drink, feeling the wine chase the warm spirit down to his gullet. “How is the Comtesse?”
“No longer threatening to feed her husband’s cock to her dogs.”
Aramis laughed. “If women bore a grudge like that for long, we’d long since have died out. Are you going to enlighten us as to the outcome?”
“Boy and a girl. Ugly little sods,” Matty said.
Still holding onto the wine, Athos nodded his thanks to Matty and made his way up to his room in the search for fresh clothes. Treville arrived shortly afterwards carrying a long slip of cloth fashioned into a sling. Athos accepted it gladly as his arm was still throbbing badly, although the wine had blunted the edge of his pain. Treville quickly rummaged in his baggage for a jacket that wasn’t covered with the blood of his enemies.
“They were Huguenots,” he announced. “The villagers heard them talking. We’ll confirm it with the captives, but it seems certain. When they failed in their objective on the road, they decided to fall back to here, already knowing they had a sympathiser in the castle and a back door into its heart. The rest, as we presumed was simply a distraction.”
“Did the villagers rescue their children?”
Treville nodded. He picked up the wine flagon and drank from it. “It turned out well in the end. The vicomte’s decision to let his people return to their families was a good one. Matty Fournier isn’t the only one I’d happily commission into the Regiment. But there are things I need to know from him before we see the Queen.” He put a hand on Athos’ shoulder. “Get cleaned up. We don’t want the Queen’s ladies throwing a another fit.”
Athos wondered how the young man would react to his new half-brother and sister. His question was answered shortly when they delivered their report to the Queen in her friend’s bed chamber. Hélène de Beaune looked tired but happy, her two babies cradled in her arms. Her husband’s eldest son stood by the bed, looking down at them with a fond expression on his face.
When they presented themselves to the Queen, Treville made much of Philippe’s part in the defence of the castle, but in truth, there was no exaggeration in his words. The boy had fought well and displayed admirable leadership. His stepmother looked at him with pride in her eyes.
The audience was kept mercifully short, with Treville careful to assure the Queen and the comtesse that the Huguenot threat had been dealt with but that the castle’s defenders would remain alert for any additional threat. The musketeers each swept a deep bow and retired from the chamber.
“Can I have another drink now?” Athos asked, trying hard not to sound plaintive.
The question earned him an amused looked from his comrades and an eye-roll from his captain but Treville took pity on him and ushered him into their shared chamber, with an instruction to the vicomte to ensure that the prisoners were well guarded and that the garrison remain vigilant, in accordance with the assurances given to the Queen.
Once the door had closed behind him, Athos dropped all pretence and sank wearily onto one of the beds, finally allowing the pain to claim him.
Treville poured a large goblet of rich, dark wine and handed it to him. Using his left hand, Athos accepted the drink gratefully and drained the contents in three long swallows. Treville refilled the goblet and then poured dome for himself.
“I would not wish to do that climb again,” he commented.
Athos raised a tired laugh. “There were times when I felt I would not succeed in that particular venture at all. Do you think the danger has passed?
Treville nodded. “I will question the survivors more thoroughly tomorrow, but yes, I think the Queen is safe now – or at least as safe as she ever is in a country that will always harbour suspicions where a daughter of Spain is concerned. Tomorrow I will send world to the King and request a further company as escort for our return.”
“We were lucky that they didn’t take advantage of the secret ways in this castle simply to kill the Queen in her bed,” Athos said, sipping more slowly at the wine.
“There were some secrets the vicomte kept to himself. Boucher had been encouraging him in his tricks to learn more about the hidden passages, but he had kept that knowledge to himself. If Porthos and Aramis had not become suspicious on their ride, this would have ended very badly, both for him and the Queen.”
“How in God’s name did he move that furniture by himself?”
“By slipping a wheeled trolley underneath.” Treville shook his head ruefully. “It seems this castle is well set up for such tricks. I gather even his illustrious ancestor who frowns down on us from every wall wasn’t such a dry stick as he appeared.”
Athos leaned back against the wall and allowed his eyes to fall shut. With two babies to coo over, their return to Paris was unlikely to be imminent and for that he was thankful. But if they were to remain, the Queen would need to be housed in a more easily secured room.
He took a more measured drink of the wine and felt the warm weight of Treville’s hand on his thigh. He hoped the remainder of their stay in the Château de la Lune would be somewhat less eventful, and perhaps the young vicomte could even be persuaded to explain how some of his other tricks had been performed.
Athos raised his glass. “Let us drink to a safe delivery.”
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 battle for control of the cave continued.
Like all hard-fought combats, it was unrelenting and bloody. At some point, Athos had sustained an injury to his sword arm, and he could feel warm blood tracking down his flesh, threatening to compromise his grip. But the rush of battle through his veins blocked any pain more effectively than laudanum could have done, while still leaving him in possession of his senses. The air reeked of gunpowder, blood, sweat and shit. Much the same as any battlefield he had known.
There was no time to regroup or even communicate. Each man had to trust his comrades to fight their own battles. Porthos had bloody running from a cut of his cheek, Treville appeared to be favouring one leg and there was a long gash in Philippe’s leather doublet, but the boy still fought with a deadly combination of ferocity and style.
Athos had seen no new attackers had emerged from the tunnel. The odds were now in their favour and they had a chance of ending this fight. Their opponents were tough and unwilling to back down, but Athos and his companions were fighting for the life of their Queen and they were determined that no one would get passed them into the castle.
Philippe was the first to finish his assailant. Athos was too occupied with his own battle to be aware of the details, but as his own opponent crumpled to the ground clutching his chest, he saw Philippe spring to Treville’s aid as their captain stumbled slightly, leaving an opening for the huge bear of a man he was fighting. The blade that darted forward towards Treville’s unprotected side was swiftly parried by Philippe and he engaged the man long enough for the captain to scramble to his feet and dash a handful of sand and stones at the man’s face, before burying his dagger to the hilt in his opponent’s chest.
Porthos, not to be outdone, let out one of his famous yells and drove his attacker back towards the wall of the cave, leaving him nowhere to go and little room to manoeuvre. In Athos’ mind, the outcome was never in doubt. The man was no match for Porthos in strength or skill.
The sound of a pistol shot rang out above the harsh rasp of breath as Porthos drove his sword home through the thick, padded leather doublet covering his opponent’s chest. In the smoke left behind by their earlier passage of arms, Athos watched as a man standing in the entrance to the tunnel staggered and fell, the pistol he’d been pointing at Treville, unnoticed by any of them, falling from a now nerveless hand. The last of their attackers had been biding his time, hoping to take them unawares.
Athos swung around, trying to locate the position of whoever had fired the shot. The noise had come from behind him, in the direction of the steps up to the castle.
Crouched at the bottom of stone stairs, Matty Fournier stared up at him, a second loaded pistol now pointing at the floor of the cave.
“Good shooting,” Athos said. “How long have you been there?”
“Saw you kill your man,” Matty told him. The boy looked around, an awed look on his face. “It’s bad down here, but up there it’s a madhouse. The Comtesse has just popped one and the midwife says there’s another on the way. Told you she was settin’ a clutch!”
Philippe de Beaune leaned back against the wall of the cave and started to unlace his tunic to examine the damage underneath. “Is Hélène well?”
“Yes, but your father’s cock won’t be. She swears blind she’s mincing it and feeding it to the dogs – while it’s still attached to him!” As he spoke, the boy was carefully reloading his pistol, mischief warring with concentration on his face.
Philippe winced. Athos hoped it was in sympathy for his father, not for his own wounds.
“How goes the defence?” Treville demanded.
“The gate still holds and they’ve taken losses. But Aramis is certain they aim to try to blow their way inside if the gates aren’t opened for them first.”
“We need to so something,” Philippe said. He gestured to the tunnel, half-blocked with corpses. “If we take that passage it will bring us out at the base of the hill and we can come up behind them without being seen. They will not be watching that side of the track.”
Treville nodded approvingly. It was clear the captain of the musketeers had no desire to fight like a rat in a trap when they stood a chance of taking the battle to the enemy.
Porthos grinned widely. “Let’s do it.”
“Matty, take word to Aramis of what we intend,” Athos said. “I’ve no desire to have him spread my guts across the hillside when all we’re trying to do is save his sorry arse.”
“Before that, send d’Artagnan to us,” Treville said. “Five musketeers with Her Majesty will be enough when the main threat is outside the castle.” He ruffled the boy’s hair. “And as Athos said, that was good shooting. I owe you my life, whelp. There’ll be a commission in the Regiment for you when you’re old enough.”
The look of naked joy on the boy’s face brought a smile to Athos’ lips.
Matty jumped to his feet. “Yes, captain!” The boy stuck his pistol through his belt and scrambled away up the steep stone steps.
“We need to tend our wounds and strip the bodies of their pistols,” Treville ordered. “There’ll be no time to reload when we launch this attack. We take as many as we can carry.”
It was grim work. They used strips cut from their attackers’ shirts to wipe the blood from their wounds and bind the lacerations as best they could, then they dragged the dead bodies into the chamber to methodically strip them of any weapons that would be of use. Two men were still alive, but severely injured, one with half his face blown away, the other with a massive hole in his guts. Athos raised his eyebrows questioningly at Treville.
The captain shook his head and drew his dagger to end the men’s pain. Athos was not surprised. They had the housekeeper to question. They would gain little by taking captives at this stage, and it was doubtful that either would have survived for long. In the end, their deaths were kinder than they deserved.
Philippe de Beaune watched their wordless exchange, his face impassive then, when the men were dead, he calmly stripped them of daggers and pistols and started to load and prime the weapons. Matty Fourier wasn’t the only one who would make an admirable musketeer.
By taking extra belts from the dead men, they were each able to carry four loaded and primed pistols, with two spare for d’Artagnan. Athos had just finished settling the extra weaponry around his waist when he heard the sound of boots on the steps into the cave.
D’Artagnan was carrying a lighted candle and as he took in the pile of bodies and the spilt blood on the rocky floor, a look of excitement quickened in his dark eyes. “I thought I was going to miss all the action,” he exclaimed.
“Haven’t things been exciting enough for you?” Treville said.
The young Gascon grimaced. “If that’s the end result, I might never go with a woman again.”
“It’s normally the women who say that.” Porthos clapped his friend on the back. “Would we leave you out of a fight?”
“You kept this one to yourselves.”
Athos handed d’Artagnan a belt and two loaded pistols then turned to Philippe. “Tell us now what we will encounter when we leave here.”
From Philippe’s description, they would follow the tunnel down through the hillside. The exit at the bottom was previously sealed and he didn’t know how much of it the attackers had broken through. The tunnel led out to the base of the hill, behind some undergrowth. From there they could take a longer route and come up along the path, but that would leave them exposed for much of the way. Alternatively, there was a shorter, steeper route that involved some climbing. It would be difficult in the dark but not impossible.
“We take the short way,” Treville decided. “Philippe, you will lead us. D’Artagnan and Athos will follow you, then Porthos. I will bring up the rear.”
The tunnel was tall enough for all but Porthos to walk upright, wider than Athos’ shoulders by less than a hand’s breadth on either side. The lanterns they were able to carry on this part of their route showed the pale pick-marks on the walls where every step of the way had been hewn from solid rock.
At one point, the tunnel curved slightly, and Athos could see that a hole in the wall had been blocked in. He tapped Philippe on the shoulder and raised his eyebrows questioningly.
“The castle well is on the other side. We’re now directly below the courtyard.”
The labour involved in creating this escape route must have been immense. According to Philippe, the work had been done four generations ago, and had been a jealously guarded secret, known only to the Beaune family. How Boucher had discovered the entrance in the cellars beneath the castle, he didn’t know, but she had worked for first his grandfather and then his father, so he had to admit there was probably little she didn’t know about the Château de la Lune’s secrets.
As they moved ever downwards, Athos could feel some movement of air in the passage, which was a relief, as he had to admit that the encompassing rock was starting to feel oppressive. When Philippe and d’Artagnan came to a halt in front of him, Athos realised they must be close to the exit.
In a hushed voice, Philippe ordered them all to wait while he investigated the last section of passage, to ensure no guards had been stationed nearby.
They waited in silence, hands on their weapons, until Philippe returned. The way out was clear, but he had heard gunshots and cries up above them so the battle for control of the gate was still in progress. The cloud cover was patchy, and the moon was casting little light, but there had, as yet, been no rain. For that, Athos was grateful. Rain would have made the climb even more treacherous and made use of their pistols difficult, if not impossible.
The tunnel had originally ended in a blank wall, but now part of that had been knocked through, allowing them to squeeze through into a shallow cave at the base of the cliff. For Athos, slipping through the narrow gap was not hard, but for Porthos it was far more of a struggle, and the big musketeer had to divest himself of his weapons belts and jacket before being able to follow. From the other side, what was left of the obstruction was indistinguishable from the cave wall.
Marvelling at the skill of the engineers who had been able to accurately drive a tunnel through several hundred feet of solid rock and bring it out in such a small space as the cave, Athos extinguished his lamp, as did the others, to allow their eyes to become accustomed to the darkness.
When they were all ready, Philippe have the final orders. “Follow the movements of the person in front of you. Try not to dislodge any loose rock. When you reach the top, there is a small platform below the level of the track with some boulders that will provide cover.” He looked at Treville. “Beyond that, I’m in your hands.”
Treville smiled wolfishly. “Beyond that, we try to kill as many of them as we can whilst trying to remain alive.”
“Good plan.” Porthos gave a wide grin. “I like that plan.”
Philippe nodded and, without wasting words, parted the undergrowth in front of the rock shelter and slipped through, moving like a phantom in the darkness. D’Artagnan followed, with Athos behind him.
The first part of the climb was relatively easy. A narrow goat-track hugged the side of the cliff, steeply angled but still plainly a path. They moved as silently as possible in the darkness, while above them they could hear the occasional shouts and shots. In front of Athos, the path started to narrow and he suddenly realised that d’Artagnan and Philippe were no longer in front of him. They’d started the ascent of the cliff itself.
Luckily for Athos, the clouds had parted slightly, allowing pale, watery moonlight to cast silvered light on the rocks above him. Doing his best to mark where d’Artagnan has placed his feet, Athos began the ascent. It was easier than he expected, but he lived in constant dread of dislodging a rock, sending it clattering down to the valley below. Climbing with a sword at his side and burdened with four pistols was not the easiest feat to accomplish, but slowly and surely, they were all gaining height, coming closer to the ledge Philippe had described.
Athos took advantage of another break in the clouds to look up and mark the remainder of the route as best he could. He was in time to see d’Artagnan’s boots disappearing over the lip of the ledge. A few small stones came off and pattered down on Athos’s face just as he was reaching up with his hand for the next hold. At the same time, one booted foot slipped, leaving him in the precarious position of holding himself in place with only one hand. He bit back a curse, tightening the grip of his right hand on the rock. Pain ripped through his arm and Athos knew he’d reopened the bandaged wound. Setting his teeth against the pain, Athos groped for a foothold with the toe of his boot.
Panic rose in him as he felt nothing but smooth rock. Unaccustomed fear churned in his stomach. Athos flailed with his foot, desperate to find something to bear his weight as he felt his other foot start to slip. Fear of falling warned with fear of dislodging something and alerting their enemies to their presence but then a large hand from below steered his foot to a protuberance on the cliff and he was able to re-establish his precarious position on the rock face. For such a large man, Porthos seemed to be making light work of the climb and Athos was thankful for his vigilance.
A hand reached down from above and grasped his wrist. With d’Artagnan’s welcome aide, Athos hauled himself onto the ledge, doing his best to draw breath quietly, when every instinct was screaming at him to flop there like a stranded fish, gulping for air. Porthos joined him then aided the last part of Treville’s climb. In the wan moonlight, Athos could see that the captain’s face was pinched and drawn. Once on the relative safety of the ledge, his hand shook slightly as he reached down to rub the leg he had been favouring in their underground struggle. It seemed that Athos wasn’t the only one who’d had an eventful ascent. It had been hard for him but for Treville, with a leg that could not wholly be trusted, it must have been a nightmare from hell.
The lead in the phase of their enterprise had subtly shifted to the two youngest members of the group. D’Artagnan and Philippe de Beaune were crouched in the cover of rock, surveying the scene and relaying details of the assault on the main gate in tones to low to carry above the noise from the siege. The attackers had abandoned any pretence of secrecy and were doing their best to manoeuvre two large barrels of gunpowder to the gate, whilst Aramis and the castle’s defenders did their best to pick off anyone ill-advised enough to all any part of their bodies to be seen behind their large shields.
Numerous bodies lay on the ground, but the besiegers still had enough men at their disposal to be dangerous. One barrel was in place, but the battle to get the second one there was being hard-fought.
Between them, Athos and his companions had twenty pistol shots, fewer if any misfired. They would have to make every shot count. After that, they would have no choice other to engage at close-quarters and to do so would make it hard to rely on any support from above, as telling friend from foe on a dark night would not be an easy task. Their position was too precarious to allow them the luxury of reloading.
They each moved carefully into position. The ledge was large enough to allow three of them spaced out, with Athos and Treville behind them, ready to take up position when the first volley of shots was exhausted. It was important not to be close to the man next to you in case a stray spark lit the power in the wrong firing pan.
“Ready?” d’Artagnan murmured. A moment later, once he had received the affirmative from everyone, the young Gascon fired the first shot.
There was little time to think. Reactions honed by long training and combat experience took over, allowing Athos to become oblivious to the noise, the smoke and the smell of black powder. The first volley was over with startling rapidity. He and Treville came to their feet, calmly choosing their targets amongst the chaos they’d caused in the midst of the castle’s besiegers. The first man he aimed at fell, the bullet taking him in the head. Athos knew he wouldn’t rise again. The second shot went slightly wide, taken his mark in the shoulder, not the chest, but it would be enough to incapacitate.
Their enemies scrabbled to return fire, but the confusion was great, especially as musket fire kept coming from the walls, catching the besiegers between a rock and a hard place.
Athos elected to keep two loaded pistols in reserve and a glance at Treville told him the captain agreed.
“Give the signal,” Athos ordered.
D’Artagnan stuck two fingers in his mouth and let out a piercing whistle, three times in succession, the signal for a cessation in Aramis’ sniping. The noise split the air, audible even over return fire and confused cries. The shots in their direction were wild, fired with no clear target in mind and, more than anything else, told Athos that whoever was directing the operation had committed their best men to the underground attack. The rest were displaying a comforting lack of discipline.
As the sound of the whistle echoed back at them off the castle walls, d’Artagnan swept his sword from its sheath and ran at the man nearest to him. Philippe de Beaune did the same. Doing his best to keep an eye on the boy, Athos did the same, with Treville and Porthos at his side.
The besiegers were torn between still wanting to manoeuvre the second barrel of gunpowder into place and the need to defend their backs against a new and unexpected enemy. The musketeers took full advantage of the confusion, dealing death with swift brutality.
Realising that the shots from the castle wall had ceased, the thick straw shield was cast aside, allowing the men carrying the barrel to move more freely.
Porthos saw what they were doing and, with a roar, threw himself in their midst. Athos followed. The darkness turned the combat into an even more dangerous undertaking, with no quarter given. Athos despatched two men in quick succession, one stabbed through the throat, his blood spraying out from an ugly gash, the other he took with a clean thrust to the heart. But then a giant of a man sprang towards him, wielding a sword thicker and heavier than the one Athos carried, and he was suddenly hard pressed, forced to give ground.
A body on the ground caused him to stumble, falling backwards as his opponent’s sword stabbed at suddenly empty air. Athos rolled, ignoring the pain in his already-injured sword arm. The darkness was now his friend, not his foe. Around him, metal rang against metal and he could here the laboured grunts of men locked in combat. The element of surprise was gone now, but those first, lethal volleys had dropped men like over-ripe fruit from a tree and evened the odds considerably. But whether they’d done enough to carry this mad plan through, Athos had no idea. He very much doubted that the Queen’s enemies were now strong enough to take the Château de la Lune, so at least the primary objective of the rear guard had been achieved.
He rolled again as the bloodied steel of the giant’s sword struck at his face with the speed of a snake. He reminded Athos of the equally huge man who had faced Treville in the tunnels, brothers, perhaps, both with a violent enmity towards a Spanish Queen.
The man raised his sword again, and this time Athos was sure he was staring death in the face. He raised his arm to parry the blow, but his grip was weak, and he could feel the wet slick of blood on his arm. Steel slid against steel and Athos knew this was not a trial of strength he was going to win. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Athos tried without success to parry the blow, when out of the darkness loomed Porthos, barging into the man with all the finesse of a bar-room brawl, and there was none more skilled in such fighting than Porthos du Vallon.
Granted a reprieve he had not expected, Athos struggled to his feet and transferred his sword to his left hand, knowing the right would not serve him now. He glanced around, finding it increasingly difficult to distinguish any individual combats in the general mêlée, but then a flickering light caught his attention.
Men were advancing up the track, holding aloft torches.
It was not just the castle’s besiegers that had been caught between a rock and a hard place. It seemed that their position had now become even more precarious.
*****
“It’s the villagers!” Philippe de Beaune declared, wild elation in his voice.
A break in the clouds allowed weak moonlight to illuminate the track up to the castle, and Athos could see that the advancing group was indeed carrying a motley assortment of weapons, some better suited to bringing in the crops, but he had no doubt that the men would use them to good effect.
The sight of some 20 – 30 men, all armed, no matter how eccentrically, was enough to turn the tide in their favour.
“Get rid of those barrels!” Treville ordered, and Porthos and d’Artagnan promptly made a dash for the one lying against the gates, and with Treville, Athos and Philippe providing what cover they could, the barrel was rolled to the edge of the track and kicked off into darkness.
Athos heard the wood break on contact with the rocks below, spilling its lethal contents far and wide. The second soon followed.
The besiegers had lost the will for a fight and were now simply trying to escape. But the villagers had spread out across the track, and had already thrown three men to their certain death. Others had been attacked with pitchfork and billhook.
“We need prisoners!” Treville yelled. “Keep some alive if you can!”
In the ensuing struggle, that wasn’t the easiest order to obey, but Athos was able to use the handle of a spent pistol to club someone on the back of the head as they turned to flee, and Porthos was able to knock another man out with one blow of his large fist. Their captives were securely trussed with belts taken from their dead comrades and tossed to one side, while Treville continued to bark orders in the voice he used on new recruits in the garrison, employing a tone that never failed to instil order in even the most unruly of gatherings.
Treville turned his attention to Athos for a moment. “Sit down before you fall down. And keep that arm up, you’ve got blood dripping from your hand.”
Despite his weariness, Athos found it hard to hold back a grin. Treville was in his element on the occasions he was able to take the field with his men. The captain was ill-suited to the political games he was often forced into playing, and a fight seemed to take years off him every time. As their enemies had been thoroughly routed, Athos allowed himself the luxury of a seat on the thick straw shield, cradling his injured arm and trying to keep his hand upright while Treville and Philippe de Beaune took charge of the final stages of raising the siege, the musketeers happy to defer to the young vicomte. Allowing the villagers to return to their families had been a good move. The de Beaune family were unlikely to have any issues with the loyalty of those who held land from them after this night’s work.
After quietly conferring with Treville, Philippe called up to Aramis, “Open the gates!”
The castle’s defenders quickly did as they’d been bidden, and musketeers came out of the gates to take charge of the prisoners and help the wounded.
Porthos held down a large hand to Athos. “Come on. You need some of Aramis’ needlework.”
Athos grimaced, recognising the truth of his friend’s words. The cut on his arm needed cleaning and stitching.
Inside the castle, the courtyard bustled with activity. He could see some wounded, but no bodies laid out. It seemed the defenders had been careful. From the reports they were no receiving, three of the villagers had been injured in the fight, but there had been no deaths. Porthos helped draw off his bloodied jacket and pull his shirt over his head. Blood had soaked through the sleeve of his linen shirt. One of the men hauled up a bucket of cold water from the well and used it to wash the mess from Athos’ body.
Aramis inspected the wound, cleaned it with some alcohol that Athos would much preferred to have drunk and then proceeded to stitch the long, deep cut closed. After he’d bounded the wound with fresh cloth, Aramis commented. “You were lucky. How you managed to climb and fight with that wound, I’ll never know.”
“I didn’t even feel the pain,” Athos admitted. What he kept to himself was that it was now hurting like the devil himself had been jabbing at him, but that observation would be a churlish reward for Aramis’ careful attention.
“Well you’ll be feeling it now,” Aramis said, offering him the flask he used for his medicinal alcohol. “I saw you eyeing this up. One mouthful, then get yourself some fresh clothes. We need to report to the Queen.”
“It’s safe to go up there now,” Matty Fournier declared appearing beside him and earning Athos’ undying gratitude by handing him a flagon of wine.
Athos took a long drink, feeling the wine chase the warm spirit down to his gullet. “How is the Comtesse?”
“No longer threatening to feed her husband’s cock to her dogs.”
Aramis laughed. “If women bore a grudge like that for long, we’d long since have died out. Are you going to enlighten us as to the outcome?”
“Boy and a girl. Ugly little sods,” Matty said.
Still holding onto the wine, Athos nodded his thanks to Matty and made his way up to his room in the search for fresh clothes. Treville arrived shortly afterwards carrying a long slip of cloth fashioned into a sling. Athos accepted it gladly as his arm was still throbbing badly, although the wine had blunted the edge of his pain. Treville quickly rummaged in his baggage for a jacket that wasn’t covered with the blood of his enemies.
“They were Huguenots,” he announced. “The villagers heard them talking. We’ll confirm it with the captives, but it seems certain. When they failed in their objective on the road, they decided to fall back to here, already knowing they had a sympathiser in the castle and a back door into its heart. The rest, as we presumed was simply a distraction.”
“Did the villagers rescue their children?”
Treville nodded. He picked up the wine flagon and drank from it. “It turned out well in the end. The vicomte’s decision to let his people return to their families was a good one. Matty Fournier isn’t the only one I’d happily commission into the Regiment. But there are things I need to know from him before we see the Queen.” He put a hand on Athos’ shoulder. “Get cleaned up. We don’t want the Queen’s ladies throwing a another fit.”
Athos wondered how the young man would react to his new half-brother and sister. His question was answered shortly when they delivered their report to the Queen in her friend’s bed chamber. Hélène de Beaune looked tired but happy, her two babies cradled in her arms. Her husband’s eldest son stood by the bed, looking down at them with a fond expression on his face.
When they presented themselves to the Queen, Treville made much of Philippe’s part in the defence of the castle, but in truth, there was no exaggeration in his words. The boy had fought well and displayed admirable leadership. His stepmother looked at him with pride in her eyes.
The audience was kept mercifully short, with Treville careful to assure the Queen and the comtesse that the Huguenot threat had been dealt with but that the castle’s defenders would remain alert for any additional threat. The musketeers each swept a deep bow and retired from the chamber.
“Can I have another drink now?” Athos asked, trying hard not to sound plaintive.
The question earned him an amused looked from his comrades and an eye-roll from his captain but Treville took pity on him and ushered him into their shared chamber, with an instruction to the vicomte to ensure that the prisoners were well guarded and that the garrison remain vigilant, in accordance with the assurances given to the Queen.
Once the door had closed behind him, Athos dropped all pretence and sank wearily onto one of the beds, finally allowing the pain to claim him.
Treville poured a large goblet of rich, dark wine and handed it to him. Using his left hand, Athos accepted the drink gratefully and drained the contents in three long swallows. Treville refilled the goblet and then poured dome for himself.
“I would not wish to do that climb again,” he commented.
Athos raised a tired laugh. “There were times when I felt I would not succeed in that particular venture at all. Do you think the danger has passed?
Treville nodded. “I will question the survivors more thoroughly tomorrow, but yes, I think the Queen is safe now – or at least as safe as she ever is in a country that will always harbour suspicions where a daughter of Spain is concerned. Tomorrow I will send world to the King and request a further company as escort for our return.”
“We were lucky that they didn’t take advantage of the secret ways in this castle simply to kill the Queen in her bed,” Athos said, sipping more slowly at the wine.
“There were some secrets the vicomte kept to himself. Boucher had been encouraging him in his tricks to learn more about the hidden passages, but he had kept that knowledge to himself. If Porthos and Aramis had not become suspicious on their ride, this would have ended very badly, both for him and the Queen.”
“How in God’s name did he move that furniture by himself?”
“By slipping a wheeled trolley underneath.” Treville shook his head ruefully. “It seems this castle is well set up for such tricks. I gather even his illustrious ancestor who frowns down on us from every wall wasn’t such a dry stick as he appeared.”
Athos leaned back against the wall and allowed his eyes to fall shut. With two babies to coo over, their return to Paris was unlikely to be imminent and for that he was thankful. But if they were to remain, the Queen would need to be housed in a more easily secured room.
He took a more measured drink of the wine and felt the warm weight of Treville’s hand on his thigh. He hoped the remainder of their stay in the Château de la Lune would be somewhat less eventful, and perhaps the young vicomte could even be persuaded to explain how some of his other tricks had been performed.
Athos raised his glass. “Let us drink to a safe delivery.”