Jacqueline was darkly aware that the rain had let up to a mist, and of hanging upside-down as the muddy ground passed before her eyes. She was lucid just long enough to deduce that she was being carried, slung over a slender pair of shoulders like a sack of grain. Then she lost the world again.
She was cold, though she was sweating. She was also lying flat on a forgiving surface. There was light, but not much, and all sounds and images were muted and blurry, as though she were under water. Deft, firm hands were doing something very rude to her shoulder. She tried to move and the pain blazed, knocking her down again.
She was hot, burning up and trying to tear all the coverings from her body. Someone was running a damp cloth over her face and neck in steady, rhythmic strokes, but the water seemed to turn to steam the moment it touched her skin.
Hold her down.
Strong hands that seemed oddly small pinned her upper arms. A glowing red object floated through the darkness toward her, toward her shoulder.
Searing agony erupted in her wound, and that was the only time she screamed.
It's all right...
She was so cold that her jaw ached from chattering. An arm slid under her bare shoulders and levered her up while a cup was held to her lips and a very bitter liquid poured into her mouth.
More. It'll help. Come on.
With little recourse, she swallowed some more.
She was hot again, though not as much. It didn't take long to realize that the strange raspy sound she heard was her own breathing. The cool cloth was there again on her face, and there was also a pretty alto humming a tune in a gently minor key. She opened her eyes to the murky gloom and the song stopped.
Mademoiselle, can you hear me?
"Yes..."
Your wound is infected and you've got a high fever. The medicine will help, but you're going to be very sick in the meantime. Do you understand?
Jacqueline wanted to say that no, she didn't understand, and would somebody please explain what the hell was going on before she lost the question?
Unfortunately, she didn't have the time.
Marjorie DeGhent twisted her mouth as the girl in her bed sighed and fell unconscious again. The lucid moments were encouraging, but the fever had raged for three days and Marjorie was beginning to worry that the infection may have spread to her lungs. Maybe the girl remained so sick as a sort of revenge for the willow bark tea. It may have lowered the fever out of the danger zone, but Marjorie knew from experience that the taste was almost bad enough to make one wish for death. Perhaps the girl could take heart in the fact that Marjorie was almost out of every herb in her pantry, and if the storm didn't let up enough for a trip to the village soon, there would be no more medicines or poultices.
Of course she was being silly. Thirty years of ministering to soldiers at her husband's side had taught her that battlefield fever was a fierce enemy, especially when the body was weakened by such blood loss, and there was no reason to jump to conclusions. Perhaps it was that damn Goddaughter of hers and her cryptic messages working up her nerves so. Honestly, she would've thought her mother would teach her a thing or two about breaking down an old woman's door and then presenting her with such a time-consuming project. She's been shot, Madge. There's no time, Madge. She must survive, Madge. I can't stay, Madge; it's a complicated matter. Sure, ma petite. May I fix you a soufflé as long as I'm not busy?
Not that it mattered. She wasn't the sort to ask questions rather than act. But for God's sakes, three days was a long time and she'd barely managed a few moments to milk her poor cow.
Rubbing her tired eyes, she tucked the blankets more firmly around the shivering girl's body and pulled back the edge of the bandages about her shoulder. Her stitches were holding, and the angry red flesh about the wound was no longer so hot to the touch. Marjorie allowed herself a smile and replaced the old garlic poultice with a fresh one. That would be the last one if the storm didn't stop.
A bolt of thunder sounded and the shutters over the window in the door burst open with the pounding wind and rain. Marjorie set down the basin of water she'd been using to sponge the girl's face and stood, crossing to the door and muttering about cheap excuses for hardware. When she was about to close the shutters however, she happened to look down at the stoop, where a small burlap sack sat alone.
Frowning, she retrieved the sack and peered inside. There were heads of garlic, willow bark, packets of cobwebs, limes, comfrey, even a small bottle of rum.
She looked up through the window, where a flash of lightening lit the meadow between the cottage and the woods. Just disappearing into the trees was a thin figure in a green cloak.
"Ma petite," she said with a grudging smile. "Now if I could just get you to come in out of the rain."
Duval shut the door against the gale and hung up his sodden coat and hat before entering the garrison common room. One look at the two men who stood huddled by the fireplace told him they'd had about as much luck as he had, but he asked anyway.
"Anything?"
Siroc shook his head. "Nothing, Captain."
"Me neither," said Ramon. "We must've been over every inch of that trail a dozen times. I'll be scrubbing mud off my boots for a month. So help me, if Jacques turns out to have run off with some senorita -"
"If only I could believe that idea," Duval said wearily, coming to stand with them in the glow of the fire. "Something tells me Jacques's not the type."
"I get that feeling too," said Siroc.
"Huh?"
"I said I hope he's all right. Maybe the horse threw him and he had to wait out the storm."
Ramon scoffed at Siroc. "Fairlight? She'd sooner take him out to dinner."
"I'm afraid I'm inclined to agree. That leaves foul play, but who'd want to hurt Jacques?"
Ramon and Siroc exchanged a look. There was the secret order, for one. And the cardinal's entire guard. And any one of the young ladies whose affections Jacques had shrugged off.
"Well, there's D'Artagnan," said Ramon.
"D'Artagnan?"
"Si. It was Jacques who stole the fishmonger's daughter from him, and not even on purpose if I understand it."
"Where is D'Artagnan? I haven't seen him since we broke up to search this morning."
"Still out," said Siroc.
"What? I told him to be back by seven o'clock. It's almost nine! He's going to get lost in the dark and the last thing I need is another missing musketeer."
Especially since we might've found Jacques by now if I'd just listened to D'Artagnan when he first disappeared.
The unspoken sentiment rang loud and clear over the drumming of the rain on the windows. Since Fairlight had returned three evenings ago without her rider, Duval had relieved Jacques's squad mates of their regular duties in order to let them devote themselves to the search. Since, D'Artagnan could scarcely be seen around the garrison.
Speak of the devil. The door opened and D'Artagnan entered, leaving a trail of rain water on his way to the huddle. Duval glared at him, but didn't scold.
"Any luck?" D'Artagnan asked through his clacking teeth.
"Nothing," said Duval.
D'Artagnan nodded. "As soon as I warm up, I'll head back out."
"No you won't. Look at you: You're half frozen and you've barely eaten in days."
"Captain, I -"
"D'Artagnan, I'm not going to let you go wandering around in the dark in the middle of a storm. You can set out again at first light. Until then, you're all restricted to the garrison. Get some food, and for God's sake get some sleep."
Duval limped off toward his room, not noticing the little shadow crouched behind a table in the hallway as he passed by. Mimou watched D'Artagnan shed his sodden coat and angrily throw it into a corner.
"Three days, guys. If Duval thinks I look bad after one night out in that, what's Jacques going through after three days?"
"It doesn't matter, Companero. He's right: We'd just get lost in the dark. I hate sitting on my hands too, but it's not going to help Jacques if we do something stupid."
Mimou unfortunately missed Ramon's rare bout of reasoning. Unnoticed by all, her movements muted by the noise of the storm, she slipped out to the stables.
Badger huddled in the shelter of the willow tree, its thick hanging branches shielding her as effectively as a thatch roof. She wished she'd been able to find more fuel for her fire, but it would never last the night if she built it up higher. Moreover, she wished she were indoors with the civilized people. Despite her upbringing, she really did prefer that to hiding al fresco. Fireplaces, stoves, teakettles, nice big beds. All were things she coveted, especially at the moment.
She growled and held her numb hands near the fire. She was really starting to hate it here. She hated the goofy little mustaches, she hated the strange obsession everyone had with wine, she hated the double-cheek kiss. That was just creepy. The weather in France was no better than the weather back home. And if she were back home, she certainly wouldn't be hiding out in the woods or slinking around like a criminal, or scrubbing blood stains out of her cloak, or getting into fights with the Knights of the Black Tabernacle...
Or finding the Cross of Asher at last. Badger sighed. Her mother was right: She should've just joined the convent.
She was just trying to remember what in the Gods' names had possessed her to come to this backwards country in the first place when she heard a horse's bray beyond the shelter of the branches. Groaning, Badger took a branch from her fire to use as a torch and stuck her head out of the leafy curtain.
The pony that was fleeing down the trail almost ran her over. When it saw her, it slid to a halt in the mud and reared up on its hind legs, pawing the air and shaking its head around in obvious distress.
"Whoa, whoa lad," Badger said, staying out of striking distance until she was able to grab the pony's bit and weigh him back down to the ground. She stroked his nose and waited for him to calm.
The pony's saddle was empty. Judging from the size of the animal, there was a very small person somewhere who was missing a mount. Bloody hell.
She put up the hood of her cloak again and towed the pony back down the trail the way it had come. For his part, the pony wasn't overly difficult, though he did take some coaxing to walk through the bigger puddles. It wasn't long before she heard a high soprano voice calling through the night.
"Jacques! Jacques, where are you? Jacques!"
Badger waved her torch into the shadows along the trail. There in a patch of brambles was a little girl, fighting to free herself from the thorny branches that were hopelessly entangled in her clothes. Gods, did anyone in this blessed country know how to stay out of trouble?
A branch snapped under Badger's foot as she approached and the girl froze, blinking up at her through a curtain of wet bangs.
"Hello," said Badger.
"Identify yourself, in the name of the musketeers!" the girl shouted.
"The what? What are you doing out here by yourself?"
The girl hesitated, then seemed to conclude that she was in no position to make demands.
"I'm on musketeer business. It's very important."
"Is that right. And you wouldn't happen to know who belongs to this fellow?"
Badger held up the reins she was holding and the girl scowled at the pony.
"He got spooked by the thunder and threw me. Some war horse you are!"
Badger shook her head and stooped to pull the girl free of the brambles, careful not to let them scratch her.
"Thank... you," said the girl, her voice trailing off as she caught sight of Badger's face in the torchlight. "Is that real?"
Badger pulled her hood forward so that it hid her features. At least this girl was looking at her with fascination rather than terror as she was accustomed.
"Come on," she sighed. "I'll see you back home."
"But I can't go home! I have to find my friend. He's been missing for almost four days!"
"Four days?" Badger said thoughtfully. "Little one, this may seem a strange question, but would you happen to know what a dar-tan-yin is?"
"Everyone knows D'Artagnan. He's back at the garrison in town. And I'm not little, I'm twelve. But what's that got to do with anything?"
"He wouldn't happen to be a friend of this friend of yours?"
The girl narrowed her eyes at Badger. "Did you hurt him? If you did, I'll -"
"'Him'..? Of course. I mean, of course not. Now could you point me at this D'Artagnan fellow? I think it would be helpful to us both."
"I can't."
"Why not?"
The girl chewed her lip. "Because I got lost half an hour ago."
Badger was glad the hood concealed her eye-roll. Nothing came easy, did it?
"It'll be dawn in a little while. Let's get out of the rain until then and we'll follow the pony home."
The girl hesitated.
"I've got apples and roasted rabbit," Badger added.
"Well, all right. But if you try to kidnap me, I'll kick you in the shins until you can't walk."
"That sounds fair."
Badger held the wing of her cloak over the girl's head to shield her from the rain and they headed back toward the willow.
The rain had finally stopped by the time Mazarin rose to dress for morning mass. He hadn't slept well, nor had he slept well for the last three nights. This left him cross all day as the different ways to murder Gilbert for his failure swirled behind his forced smile.
There was a light tap on the door.
"Enter."
Philippe, the cardinal's valet scurried into the room with an armful of newly laundered vestment.
"You're late again. Is your rooster on vacation?"
"Forgive me, Your Eminence. The baby has been giving my wife trouble and when the wife has trouble, the husband has trouble and -"
"Philippe, how many times do I have to tell you that I'm not interested?" Mazarin stood with his arms up and Philippe climbed up on a footstool to pull off the cardinal's dressing gown. "Any news?"
"Nothing new, Your Eminence. Gilbert still hasn't returned and LePonte is still missing."
"Of course they are. Why shouldn't they be?" Mazarin shrugged into the robe as Philippe lowered it over his head. "Philippe, how much time do we have until the new moon?"
"Eleven days, I think," Philippe said, doing up buttons.
"Then I think we should come up with a back-up plan in case Gilbert doesn't come through, which is looking more likely by the hour. Don't you agree?"
"Your Eminence?"
Mazarin's eyes bore into Philippe's and he lowered his voice to a rumbling whisper.
"Get a message to the knights that I wish to address them tonight at sundown. We have much to discuss."
Philippe's rat-like smile spread across his pock-marked face. How he loved his job.