A second face loomed over d’Artagnan.
“Now that you’re awake, I’ll thank you not to flirt with my wife,” said Athos in a scathing tone that matched the woman’s exactly.
D’Artagnan closed his eyes, and wondered if he could simply feign unconsciousness until everyone gave up and went away again.
THE HOUSEHOLD IN WHICH d’Artagnan found himself was an odd one, though he certainly couldn’t fault their hospitality as he rested and recovered his strength. In addition to Porthos, Aramis, Athos, and Athos’ angelically beautiful wife, there was also Grimaud, the silent and imposing servant; a demure young woman in widow’s weeds named Ana María, who was several months pregnant; and de Tréville, her battle-scarred, protective older relative—missing an arm and an eye, and the owner of the gruff, authoritative voice that had punctuated d’Artagnan’s unconscious dreams.
The estate belonged to the injured nobleman, Athos. Comprising a small castle along with twenty acres of crops, woods, and kitchen gardens, it adequately provided for the needs of the strange assortment of people currently calling it home.
They were currently gathered around the large dining table, enjoying several bottles of wine and a very passable coq au vin served by Grimaud. The hearty dish might as well have been ambrosia directly from Heaven as far as d’Artagnan’s empty belly was concerned.
Remembering his manners after the first bowl of stew had disappeared, he turned his attention to Athos and Aramis.
“Forgive me,” he said. “I should have asked earlier. How fares the girls’ grandmother?”
“She will survive,” Athos answered laconically.
“Though not without bruised ribs and a broken wrist, sadly,” Aramis added, his expression of distaste clearly showing what he thought of anyone who would inflict such injuries on an old woman.
D’Artagnan found himself slightly wrong-footed by the almost courtly attitudes of chivalry evident among his new acquaintances. They seemed more appropriate to the childhood fantasies of knights and nobles that he and his friends had played at as boys in happier times, than to the realities of the world around them.
He felt oddly drawn to these men and their lofty ideals, as evidenced by his actions the previous afternoon in Blois... Yet a strange little voice of fearful mistrust—one which had haunted him since the death of his family and the loss of his father’s farm—whispered that it must all be some sort of twisted ruse, designed to draw d’Artagnan in and make him look foolish. Such attitudes did not persist in today’s France. Today’s France was a place where the strong overtook the weak without mercy, and to pretend otherwise was the mark of naiveté at best, and stupidity at worst.
Recalling himself to the conversation, but unsure how exactly to respond, he hazarded, “The sisters will look after her, won’t they?”
“’Course they will,” Porthos said with assurance.
“God willing,” Ana María said in a soft, sweet voice, “one day soon, France will once again be a place where the law protects innocent people from such unconscionable crimes.”
“Can’t come too soon,” Porthos said, gesturing with a forkful of chicken. “As it stands, Isabella of Savoy seems a lot more interested in consolidating political power in support of her son than in actually governing the country.”
D’Artagnan perked up despite himself, listening intently. Discussion of politics had been a staple of his childhood in Gascony, where everyone seemed to have strong opinions on the way France was run. He had missed such talk, and his present company appeared to be well informed on the subject.
“Since the Duc d’Orléans got himself assassinated and left her a widow,” Porthos continued, “it seems like her only interest in the people lies in how much gold she can extract from them before the Curse turns France into one big graveyard.”
D’Artagnan covered a wince at the mental image.
“They say that the Duc was killed by Spanish agents,” he offered.
“Well, obviously,” Porthos replied. “I mean—Isabella is a cousin to the King of Spain, after all. The way I see it, Spain only needed the Duc alive long enough for him to oust his brother Louis from the throne. Once he took power and Isabella bore him a son, d’Orléans found himself surplus to requirements.”
“Spain has long sought to either control France or destroy it,” de Tréville interjected with a scowl. “As it stands, they are well on their way to doing both at once.”
“Is it true what some people are saying, then?” d’Artagnan asked. “That Spanish Mages are behind the Curse?”
“Almost certainly,” de Tréville replied grimly.
Porthos grunted agreement. “Louis’ brother was always a fool—forging alliances and breaking them on a whim; leaving a trail of enemies behind him. He was an idiot to let Spain get a foot in France’s door, thinking he could outsmart them for his own benefit. Seems to me that the Spanish simply double-crossed him before he could double-cross them. If the country wasn’t falling apart around us, there’d be a certain poetic justice to it, I suppose.”
D’Artagnan nodded thoughtfully, and raised a point he’d been wondering about since news of King Louis’ ouster first reached Gascony. “Here’s what I don’t understand, though. King Louis’ wife is Spanish as well—closer to the ruling family than even Isabella of Savoy. If Spain wanted to gain influence in France, it seems to me they could have had it a lot more easily when he was on the throne. I mean—Queen Anne is the King of Spain’s own sister.”
Porthos looked strangely disquieted, and there was a beat of silence around the table before Ana spoke up once again.
“Since she had not produced an heir and come into her powers, I daresay the Mage Queen held little value to anyone in either France or Spain—not even her brother,” she said, absently smoothing a hand over her swollen belly before returning it to the table. “Evidently, Spain thought it more advantageous to encourage destabilization from behind the scenes, while simultaneously moving to destroy France with magic. A cowardly tactic... but it seems that honor is dead everywhere these days; not just in France.”
She looked so deeply downtrodden that d’Artagnan felt a wash of sympathy for her. Beside her, de Tréville set down his spoon and covered her small hand with his large, callused one. She glanced up at him with a faint, sad smile.
“Present company excepted, of course,” she added, letting her gaze flit around the table to include everyone seated there.
D’Artagnan cleared his throat, and said, “Well, if the goal was destabilization... I’ve travelled a long way these past weeks, and this land has become a harsh and ugly place.”
Athos shrugged his good shoulder. “When you remove the support from a structure, it crumbles into chaos. The old ways are gone—swept away by the Curse and political unrest. In a land where there are barely enough workers to produce food and clothing for the populace, it’s little surprise that no one can be spared to impose order and enforce the law.”
D’Artagnan nodded, focusing on his host. “Speaking of the old ways... Athos, may I ask you a personal question?”