All for One (22 page)

“They’d have followed him,” Perrin said slowly, looking around at the brush. Broken twigs in the bushes caught his attention. “See, they lay in wait here for him. They must have followed him out from town and then waited for him to return.”

Teodoro raised an eyebrow at Raúl before dismounting to examine the ground around the bushes. “Several horses, at least—but perhaps they did not follow him. See, the tracks turn back in the same direction from which they came.” He glanced back to the musketeers with a frown. “I cannot say what brought your friend to this place, but he may have ridden into the thick of them.”

Perrin’s frown deepened. “What lies in that direction?” he asked Léandre who, he hoped, knew more of the area than he did, coming from the east of Paris, not here to the west.

“Country estates,” Léandre answered, then paused. “The Queen Mother has a residence not far from here, if I mistake not.” His hands tightened on the reins, making his horse stir restlessly. “Aristide spoke of the de Medici. Surely it cannot be….”

“And would the Queen Mother take in a wounded musketeer?” Raúl asked.

“At this point, she’s a primary suspect in his disappearance,” Christian replied ruefully. “You’ve landed yourself in yet another plot to assassinate a King, my friend. You may regret coming to visit us.”

Raúl chuckled and looked at the group standing in the road. “There are a few more of us than there were the last time we rode to save a King.”

There was obviously a tale behind those comments—Léandre only hoped they would have an opportunity to hear it, some day. After they rescued Aristide. “I think I can find the estate from here. Perhaps we will find some sign there to tell if they have Aristide.”

“You might begin by following the bloodstains,” Teodoro suggested. Sure enough, when he followed the Spaniard’s gesture, Léandre saw a spatter of rusty droplets marking the foliage heading back into the grove of trees. “They likely threw him over his horse’s back to carry him away.”

“But why would they leave his tunic at the side of the road?” Esteban asked.

“He was wounded, obviously. Would she have wanted him alive?” Raúl asked. “They could have pulled it off to see how badly he was hurt.”

“More fools they, to leave it where anyone could find it,” Léandre observed.

“Ah, but Raúl is not just anyone,” Christian countered. “And if Aristide was losing blood this badly, we may be doubly grateful he is with us.”

“Come on, then!” Léandre spurred his horse down the path, the others following close behind him.

Half an hour of hard riding brought them to the outskirts of a lavish estate, ornate wrought-iron gates framing a wide lawn and gardens circling a château of pale white stone. The trail of blood had failed a short way after they left the main road, leading Perrin to hope that Aristide’s captors had stopped to bind the wound and not that Aristide had lost enough blood to stop dripping. Fortunately, the riders’ path was easy enough to follow, as if they did not expect or fear any pursuit.

“There it is, but how are we to get inside? If they do have Aristide, we can hardly ride up and simply ask for him,” Léandre grumbled.

“You wound me with your lack of faith,” Raúl joked, surveying the castle grounds. “My guess would be that this wall doesn’t go all the way around—too expensive. So the first thing to do is to follow it to its end so we can get inside and see how things look from there. We’ll know more then. As for the rest, you’re right, we can’t very well knock on the door, but there’s more than one way to get ourselves inside.”

“I suppose it’s too much to hope you already have someone on the inside this time,” Christian quipped. “It would be so much easier if we had someone to open the doors for us.”

Raúl shrugged. “Not this time. We’ll just have get them to come out and leave the doors open behind them.”

“But how?” Benoît demanded, his fear for Aristide overruling his usual reticence.

“There are the stables,” Teodoro observed as they circled the grounds from a distance, past where the wall ended as Raúl had predicted. He glanced back over his shoulder at Benoît. “You are a blacksmith, are you not? Perhaps they could use another hand with their horses.”

Benoît’s eyebrows flew up. “But… I mean… what would that serve?”

Perrin huffed and rolled his eyes. “Information, idiot. You might see or hear something that could help us. If nothing else, you can tell us how many men there are inside.”

“Look for anything that might be a weakness, something we can use to find a way in,” Léandre added in a milder tone. “If naught else, we could set fire to the stables, or one of the other outbuildings. That could draw enough of them off to improve the odds.”

Benoît glared at Perrin but nodded. “I’ll do it. If you think it’ll help Aristide.”

Christian smiled kindly. “The more we know, the better our chances of getting in and getting him out alive.” He didn’t mention the possibility that the musketeer might already be dead. It was likely already on all their minds anyway.

Nodding resolutely, Benoît handed Sagace’s reins to Esteban and started toward the stables with a determined stride. Walking in as if he had every right to be there, he looked around, keeping a mental tally of all the grooms he saw working. He’d made it almost the full length of the stable before someone challenged him. “I’m the blacksmith,” Benoît replied as if that should be obvious. “You did need a blacksmith, right?”

The stable master frowned. “I don’t think anyone sent for a blacksmith.”

Benoît huffed. “You mean I’ve wasted my time coming out here? Fine, I’ll just be on my way, then.” He kept walking toward the nearer exit at the opposite end of the stables from where he’d entered. He was nearing the door when a familiar whinny drew his attention. He turned his head to see Aristide’s horse in the last stall. Forcing himself not to betray any recognition, he said, “That’s quite a horse you’ve got there.”

The stable master rolled his eyes. “Unruly brute, that’s what he is. Fortunately, he’s only here for a day or two. I’ll be glad to see the last of him, that’s for sure.”

Benoît nodded, looking back into the stables one last time. “You’re sure you didn’t call for a blacksmith?”

The stable master nodded. “I’m sorry for the confusion, but we haven’t broken any bits or lost any horseshoes recently.”

Benoît shrugged. “Oh, well, I’m sure I’ll figure out who needed me eventually.” With that, he left the stables and wandered back toward the stand of trees where the others were hidden.

“They have Orphée,” he told the others excitedly when he rejoined them. “I saw him in the stable. That means Aristide’s here!”

“Well done!” Léandre clapped Benoît on the shoulder. “I don’t suppose you could pass yourself off as a footman next and get us into the château?”

“Even if he could,” Raúl interrupted, “the rest of us wouldn’t pass so easily. We need a diversion to empty the manor so we can slip inside unnoticed. I think your idea would serve. A fire would bring everyone outside to help put it out.”

“But if you set fire to the stables, the horses would be trapped inside,” Esteban protested.

“What are a few horses compared to Aristide’s life?” Perrin snapped.

“We need to get Orphée out at least,” Léandre retorted. “Aristide would never forgive us if we let any harm befall his horse.”

“Fine,” Perrin replied sharply, his temper fraying with his worry over his friend. “What do you suggest?”

“There’s more than one outbuilding,” Christian pointed out. “They’ll come running just as quickly to the granary as to the stables, and we can get the horses out before we set a second fire, just to make sure they stay busy long enough for us to find Aristide.”

Mollified, Perrin nodded. “Let’s get busy. Aristide’s waited long enough already.”

“I will fire the granary,” Teodoro volunteered. “When the stable hands note it, the rest of you can open the stalls to free the horses. Once they are clear, we can light the straw in the barn and make for the manor house.”

The others agreed, Christian pulling Teodoro to him for a swift kiss before letting him go. “
Cuidadoso, mi corazon
,” he whispered as he stepped back.

“
Siempre
,” Teodoro promised, turning to disappear quietly into the cover of the surrounding trees. The others waited in silence, Christian trying not to fidget in obvious worry. Raúl moved to stand beside him, his presence a wordless reminder of the dangers they had faced and overcome before this. A few moments later, a curl of smoke rose from one of the buildings, followed soon after by the crackle of open flame.

“Fire!” A voice shouted, joined quickly by another. “Ho, fire!”

It took another minute for the shouts to pass to the château, but almost immediately, the grooms started running from the stables with rakes, blankets, and buckets to combat the flames. “Let’s go,” Raúl murmured when the flood of people thinned. “Léandre, will you get Orphée back to our horses while we set the rest of them free and get a second fire started?”

Nodding, Léandre raced into the emptied stables, passing through the long row of stalls until an angry whinny claimed his attention. “Let’s get you out of here,” he murmured to the big bay in the last stall, opening the wooden gate. Orphée reared, striking out with his fore hoofs until Léandre called his name loudly. “I know you are worried for your master,” he soothed, hoping the frantic animal would recognize his voice. “But Aristide needs you safe to carry him away once we get him free. Come on, now.” The stallion settled, allowing Léandre to grasp his bridle and lead him out of the building and into the woods. He whickered softly when he recognized the other horses from the musketeers’ stable, calming more now that he was surrounded by familiar friends. He even stood quietly while Léandre secured him with the rest of their mounts. As soon as he was sure Orphée would not kick up a fuss and draw attention to the location of their horses, Léandre headed back to the others. As he arrived, they chased the last of the remaining horses out of the barn.

Perrin knocked over a lamp into the straw, watching long enough to make sure it caught well. “That ought to keep them busy for awhile,” he said with gleeful satisfaction. “Let’s go find Aristide.”

Chapter 20

T
HE
sound of the chamber door opening snapped Aristide awake. He hadn’t meant to sleep, but apparently he’d lost enough blood that somewhere around the tenth time he’d failed to come up with a way to get word of Marie’s treachery back to Paris, his body had simply shut down on him. He dragged a hand over his eyes and pushed himself up on one elbow, relieved to find the room no longer spun around him.

The Queen Mother stood in the doorway, flanked by a pair of liveried footmen, their muscular build hinting that they were more than just household servants. He did not see any weapons, but in his present state, they wouldn’t need them to subdue him.

“You did not answer my question earlier,” Marie declared, approaching the bed. “Why were you guarding the Austrian whore in the uniform of the Cardinal rather than your own?”

“You cannot truly think I would tell you anything that might help you place your bastard on the throne,” Aristide countered, chancing that angering Marie might provoke her into revealing more of her plans—and not into having her henchmen kill him outright.

“Brave words,” Marie taunted, “but how long will your loyalty last? How much pain can you bear before you tell me what I want to know rather than suffer any longer?” A flick of her fingers brought one of the footmen to the side of the bed, his fingers digging beneath the bandage to press into the musketeer’s wound.

A harsh cry of pain tore from Aristide before he clenched his teeth, straining in a futile attempt to pull away. The cry did not abate, making him realize the shout was coming, not from his throat, but somewhere outside the palace. It had no impact on the guard tormenting him, unfortunately. Panting when the brutal pressure was finally eased, the musketeer met Marie’s stare with defiance. “You may as well kill me now. I will never betray my King.”

“I’d like nothing better,” Marie snapped, “but I need you alive a little longer. If I kill you now, you won’t be in any shape to take the blame when the musketeers suddenly turn on my illustrious son. You’ll just have to suffer some more, I’m afraid.”

The shouts continued outside. Turning to the other guard, the Queen Mother frowned. “Go find out what that commotion is. It’s distracting.” When he left, she returned her attention to the wounded musketeer. “What could Richelieu possibly gain by allowing you this disguise?” she asked rhetorically, no longer expecting an answer, though she would do her best to get one. “He hates
M.
de Tréville almost as much as I do.”

The footman’s fist pressed into the wound again before Aristide could make any reply, tearing open the scab and starting the blood running down his side. The sound of shouting barely penetrated through the pain, until he caught sight of a roil of dark smoke through the room’s tall windows. Scarcely daring to hope the commotion could work to his favor, he judged it best to keep Marie’s attention distracted in the only way he could. “If you attempt this treason, you will find every man in France your enemy.”

“Ah, but who would suspect me?” she asked. “I will cry over the grave of my dearly departed son and shout loudly for retribution against the men who allowed one of their own to assassinate him. My footmen will all swear they found you sneaking out of the royal chambers. You fought when they detained you, and you were killed in the process. The court will assume my son importuned you, and you took your revenge.”

Aristide was struggling to voice another denial when the second guard ran back into the room. “Your Majesty, the stables are on fire, and the granary! We must stop the fire before it reaches the manor house!”

Marie glared. “Do not think this is over, musketeer. We will continue this later.” She swept out of the room, shouting orders to the footmen as she went.

This was his only chance, Aristide realized. If he could not find a way to get free now, he would never have another. Clutching at the mattress with his sound hand, he dragged himself upright, swaying with dizziness. As soon as his vision cleared he slid to his feet, holding onto the side of the bed for balance as he made his way toward the windows. If he could get one open, perhaps he could climb out. Fall out, his common sense admitted, but if the drop didn’t kill him, in the chaos of the burning stables he might be able to commandeer one of the horses. Then he’d just have to stay alive on the ride back to the city.

The door opened behind him again, bringing a muttered curse to his lips, until he heard a sound of dismay. “What have they done to you?” Benoît cried, crossing the room without even checking to see if anyone else was present. His arm went around Aristide’s waist, his shoulder beneath the musketeer’s sound arm, automatically taking his weight.

At the door, Christian glanced around the room and ascertaining no immediate threat, withdrew quietly, giving the two men a moment alone while he went to alert the others to Aristide’s location.

Aristide blinked, half expecting the smith’s unexpected presence to vanish when his eyes opened, but the arms around him were no hallucination. “Benoît? How did you find me?” Aristide’s words were cut off by Benoît’s lips closing over his, the kiss fierce and sweet and all too short.

They needed to talk. Benoît knew he needed to explain, to make Aristide understand what had happened the night before, but other things took precedence at the moment. Particularly proving to himself that the musketeer was still alive and proving to the other man that whatever miscommunication had happened, Benoît wanted him in every way possible. Finally breaking the kiss, he tightened his grip as Aristide swayed slightly in his embrace. “I’ll explain everything later, I promise, but for now, we need to get you somewhere safe so we can tend to your wound. Can you walk?”

“With help,” Aristide admitted, though in truth the surprising kiss made his head swim nearly as much as his wound. “We need to get out—get back to Paris. Marie….” He broke off as the handful of steps they had taken toward the door left him gasping for breath.

Benoît paused, letting Aristide catch his breath, but a part of him itched to hurry Aristide along. Unfortunately, he was too heavy to simply whisk off to safety. Benoît needed the musketeer’s cooperation or someone else’s help.

Fortunately, Christian rounded the doorway just as Aristide began to sag in Benoît’s arms. The Englishman hurried to their side, carefully supporting the wounded man’s shoulder as Teodoro entered a step behind him. “Quickly, the fire will not distract them much longer. Someone is sure to realize it was meant to empty the manor.”

“He’s hurt,” Benoît snapped. “We’re moving as quickly as he can.”

“Gently now,” Christian scolded, both to Aristide as he tried to lurch forward and to Benoît for his tone of voice. “It won’t help anyone if Aristide gets hurt worse trying to get outside. Benoît and I will help him while Teodoro stands guard. He’s the best of us with a sword.”

“I sent the others to fetch the horses.” Teodoro’s sword was in one hand, his
daga izquierda
in the other—it would be a brave man indeed who would challenge his fierce demeanor. “We need only get him outside.”

They had just made it into the corridor when a figure dressed in black came skidding around the corner, sword in hand. Teodoro spun into action, engaging the attacker, his
daga izquierda
slipping beneath the other man’s guard, stopping just short of his unprotected belly when he realized who it was. “You should consider your actions more carefully, Perrin, or you will find yourself as injured as your friend.”

Perrin flushed, both at the reprimand and at being so easily defeated. He muttered an apology, his eyes fixed on Aristide, supported between Christian and Benoît. He took a step forward, intending to take Benoît’s place.

Benoît had no intention of allowing anyone to replace him at Aristide’s side, least of all Perrin. He shoved the other musketeer back, keeping his other arm securely in place around Aristide’s waist.

“You were to fetch the horses with the others—do you always follow orders so poorly?” Teodoro added, though Christian at least recognized the twitch of his lip that passed for a smile.

“Frequently,” Aristide rasped, tightening his grip around Benoît’s shoulder with his sound arm. He managed a smile for Perrin, grateful to see his companions were unharmed, though nothing would move him from Benoît’s clasp. “Let’s go—the de Medici hospitality leaves much to be desired.”

“Make sure the way is clear,” Teodoro ordered, not intending to let Christian out of his sight until they were safe, and probably not even then. “I’ll guard their backs.”

Perrin nodded and returned the way he came, neatly dispatching the one guard they encountered. As they neared the door, a female voice commanded them to stop. They spun to face her, three swords and Teodoro’s
daga izquierda
all pointed in her direction. “What have we here?” Marie demanded. “A rescue party? How quaint. You won’t get away. And even if you do, you’ll never be safe, not now that I know your faces.”

“But we now know your plot,” Christian countered, “and we’re not the only ones. The Cardinal and
M.
de Tréville both are aware of your treachery and should any harm befall the King, or any of these musketeers, you may be sure you will be the one blamed, Madame.”

“English
connard
, this is none of your affair,” Marie sneered. “Who would believe your word against mine? You may be sure my true son will know how to deal with foreign meddlers such as you when he takes the throne.”

Teodoro stepped forward, the point of his rapier just touching the rich fall of lace at Marie’s breast. “Step aside, Madame, or your rank will be no safeguard against my blade.”

“You are a nervy one, to threaten me,” the Queen Mother said coolly, but she moved aside to let them pass. As soon as the path to the door was clear, Benoît started moving toward it, his arm propelling Aristide forward. He wanted them out of here and safe as quickly as possible, if safety could be had with Marie knowing their identities.

They made their way down the corridor as quickly as Benoît and Christian could move Aristide forward, Perrin scouting the way ahead of them and Teodoro taking the rearguard. A trio of swordsmen confronted them just as they reached the soaring entrance hall. Perrin and Teodoro engaged two of them at once, but before Christian could slip from under Aristide’s arm to add his blade, Léandre raced up the marble steps from outside, dispatching the third guard before the man could turn to block his thrust.

“The horses are waiting—quickly, before more of them return,” Léandre ordered, running to Aristide’s side. “I’ll take him,” he told Christian, sliding in his place as Teodoro wiped his blade on his dead opponent’s livery before sheathing it. “Hurry up, Perrin,” he added just as the third musketeer’s sword pierced the last guard’s heart.

Benoît would have preferred Christian stay on Aristide’s other side, the seeds of jealousy sprouting viciously at the thought of Léandre touching
his
Aristide, but he pushed the feeling aside. They had more important things to worry about than who helped Aristide out of the house and onto a horse. And he knew someone else would have to ride with the musketeer, Benoît’s skills insufficient to keep them both mounted without help.

“Some people are so impatient,” Perrin retorted as he followed the others out the door. “Any idea where we might find a safe place to stay?”

“You could always remain and ask Marie for a room,” Léandre retorted.

“Bring him here,” Raúl instructed, leading his horse alongside the steps’ decorative iron railing and gesturing to the men supporting the injured musketeer. “He can use this to help him mount. I’ll ride behind him,” he added, not missing the jealous tension between at least three of his new acquaintances. “I can lead you to an inn not far from here, where Gerrard is holding a room for us. I suspected we might need a place nearby when I found the bloodied tunic.”

Christian exchanged an amused smile with Teodoro as they mounted. “One of these days, I’ll find something that actually surprises you,” he told the gypsy.

“It took no more than common sense to expect that a tunic with a musket-hole in it likely meant an injured man somewhere near,” Raúl answered. His gaze shifted to Benoît, who stared worriedly as the musketeer fell more than climbed onto the horse. “He took good care of you when you were wounded,” he told the smith, mounting behind Aristide and wrapping a careful arm around his chest. “Now we will be privileged to return the favor.”

“How did you…?” Benoît started to ask, but Raúl had already started his horse forward, leaving Benoît to scramble atop Sagace in an effort to catch up. He urged his horse as close to Raúl as he could safely get, not wanting Perrin or Léandre to usurp his place at Aristide’s side.

Perrin grabbed the reins of his horse from the waiting Esteban, swinging into the saddle with practiced ease and thundering after the others, making sure to stay far enough behind to warn them of any pursuit should it come. He doubted Aristide would survive a run for their lives, but perhaps they could avoid that necessity. Léandre seemed to be reading his mind, falling in beside him a few furlongs behind the others, leading Orphée.