| |
D’ARTAGNAN WAS ALMOST to d’Aumont’s tent before he finally made the connection, his feet slowing momentarily when he realized what Aramis had meant. Relieved to finally have a strategy in mind, he took a deep breath and continued on his way. The tent flap was open, and he announced himself during a lull in the conversation inside.
“Come in, d’Artagnan,” called de Tréville’s gruff voice.
“Sirs,” d’Artagnan said, upon ducking through the low opening. Unsure of the protocol, he sketched a bow toward M. d’Aumont, who immediately waved him off.
“None of that, lad,” d’Aumont said. “I understand you have a report for us on the casualties?”
Antoine d’Aumont de Rochebaron was a slender gentleman of about thirty, with pointed features and a head of extravagant light brown curls. Despite his slight lisp, he had the sort of steadying presence that caused men to follow him naturally. D’Artagnan had met him only briefly when de Tréville introduced him as the liaison between the Queen’s musketeers and the combined forces of d’Aumont, Patenaude, and Tolbert, but he’d respected the man immediately.
“Yes,” d’Artagnan replied. “After making as accurate a tally as I could manage, it appears that thirty-nine were killed outright, and another seventeen are not expected to survive their injuries. Twenty-three were lightly wounded, and are being tended at the church. That number includes M. Tolbert, whose shoulder was dislocated when he was thrown from his horse. He should make a full recovery, happily.”
“That’s good to hear,” de Tréville said. “We need his experience and steady hand with the men.”
“There is another matter, Captain,” d’Artagnan said, addressing de Tréville. “Perhaps I could speak privately to you for a moment?”
“Does this matter pertain to the current situation?” de Tréville asked.
“In a manner of speaking, sir,” d’Artagnan replied after a slight pause.
“Well, in that case, you’d better share it with all of us,” de Tréville said.
D’Artagnan cleared his throat. “I... came upon a young woman helping the wounded. We started talking, and I discovered that she has a connection to someone in Isabella’s court—a gentleman-in-waiting who also served Queen Anne. I thought you might wish to speak with her, so I invited her to come to M. Rougeux’s house this evening.”
“I see,” said de Tréville, hitching a hip up on the edge of the table full of maps the three men had been poring over when d’Artagnan entered. “And is she pretty, this young woman whose connections at court interest you so?”
“Er... yes?” d’Artagnan replied, fighting manfully against the flush of embarrassment that wanted to climb up his neck.
D’Aumont made a faint noise that might have been swallowed laughter, but Patenaude said, “Depending on the circumstances, this connection could be valuable to us, could it not?”
“Indeed, you are quite right, Patenaude,” d’Aumont said after a moment, all traces of merriment fading from his face and voice. “What is the name of this gentleman at court?”
“It is M. de La Porte,” d’Artagnan answered. “He’s the lady’s godfather.”
De Tréville raised his hand, tapping his lower lip thoughtfully. “I’ve heard the name before, though not for some years,” he said. “Very well, d’Artagnan. You may bring the young lady up to the house this evening.” D’Artagnan carefully concealed his sigh of relief as de Tréville continued. “In the mean time, however, I believe that the men digging graves in the churchyard could use another pair of hands. Off you go.”
His spirits, which had initially soared at the Captain’s words, dipped considerably. Still, burying the dead was a necessary task, and d’Artagnan had never in his life shirked what needed to be done, no matter how unpleasant.
“Yes, Captain,” he said, dipping his head in acknowledgement. “I’ll get started right away.”
* * *
Digging graves and burying the bodies was sweaty, filthy work. By the time the sun was approaching the western horizon, d’Artagnan’s back was aching fiercely and his clothes were covered in mud. It was with some considerable relief that he handed his mattock to another soldier and climbed out of the hole in which he’d been toiling.
A quick attempt at brushing the dirt from his breeches and boots showed it to be a futile endeavor. He swiped at his forehead with the back of one hand, smearing more mud across his face. There was nothing for it—he had brought along no change of clothes and there wasn’t time to go back to the house before he was to meet Constance.
Indeed, Constance was already waiting for him by the front entrance to the chapel when he arrived. She looked him up and down, taking in his disheveled and dirty appearance, and let out an explosive sigh.
“Oh, thank goodness,” she said in a rush. “I changed my skirts, but this is the only bodice I own and it’s covered in dirt and blood. I was worried that I’d end up humiliating myself.”
D’Artagnan smiled in relief. “Well, if so, then we’ll be humiliated together. I shouldn’t worry, though; everyone understands that we’ve just come from the aftermath of a battle. If you’d like, I’ll see if Milady has anything you can borrow when we get to the house. I believe you’re nearly the same size.”
“Milady? And pray tell, who is that?” Constance asked, taking d’Artagnan’s arm when he offered it. The two started walking west down the main road toward M. Rougeux’s property.
“The wife of one of the Queen’s musketeers, and a close confidante of Her Majesty,” d’Artagnan explained. “An extraordinary woman, and one I’m proud to know. I once had to pretend to be her younger brother, of all things...”
They continued to chat about light topics, following the road as it curved to the north. By unspoken agreement, they steered clear of discussing the grisly events of the day, focusing instead on the weather, stories about Constance’s brothers in Chartres, and the Queen’s newborn baby as the sun sank toward the western horizon. D’Artagnan found Constance’s company simultaneously soothing to his overtaxed nerves and pleasantly stimulating to his mind and soul, to the point that when they arrived at the entryway to M. Rougeux’s land, he discovered he was somewhat disappointed that their stroll was almost at an end.
Constance seemed unduly impressed by the way that the guards standing watch on the property recognized him and deferred to him—they were only village lads, after all. However, d’Artagnan was not about to complain about anything that raised his esteem in her eyes. When they arrived at the house and were granted entrance, he ushered Constance to a comfortable seat in the parlor and excused himself for a moment to find Milady. She was in the kitchen with Mme Rougeux, and raised an interested eyebrow when he explained briefly about his guest and the state of her clothes.
“So, you’ve stumbled upon someone with a connection to Isabella’s court, have you?” she asked pensively. “That’s very interesting, indeed. Is she pretty?”
“Why does everyone keep asking me that?” d’Artagnan said with some asperity. “Yes. Fine. She’s pretty. She was also defending a dying man’s right to water and care when I met her. Perhaps someone should ask about that part, instead of her looks.”
Milady’s other eyebrow joined the first, before she lowered both. “Forgive me, d’Artagnan. I shouldn’t tease. She sounds like an interesting person, and I will be happy to offer her a clean dress for the evening.” She wiped her hands on a towel and set aside the bowl of dough she’d been mixing. “Come, why don’t you introduce me to her.”
Constance rose quickly as he and Milady entered, her hands clasped together as if she wasn’t quite sure what to do with them. D’Artagnan introduced the two, and was quickly swept aside by the force of Milady’s charm and charisma. Within moments, the older woman had spirited Constance away to find her something to wear, leaving d’Artagnan standing alone in the parlor, somewhat at a loss. With a sigh, he went to change his own clothes and see if de Tréville was back yet. He hoped that Her Majesty would make an appearance later, however brief. The evening meal tended to be a haphazard affair with so many people coming and going, so it was by no means a certainty.
When he returned to the kitchen, Mme Rougeux informed him that de Tréville had just arrived and was waiting in the dining room, where they would all be sitting down for a more formal meal than was usual, in honor of their guest. Touched by her kindness in the face of yet another invasion of her house, d’Artagnan thanked her sincerely and went to join his friends and captain in the spacious room off the parlor. There, he found Athos, Milady, and M. Rougeux in addition to de Tréville and Constance, who now wore a clean, simple dress in a very fetching shade of forest green.
She smiled at him somewhat nervously, and he smiled back to reassure her. D’Artagnan took the seat next to her at the large table, noting that the chair at the head stood empty. Before the silence could become stifling, he cleared his throat and began introductions.
“Mme Bonacieux, may I present our host, M. Rougeux, and my captain, M. de Tréville. Milady, you’ve already met, and next to her is M. Athos, her husband and a man I am pleased to call a friend and comrade,” he said.
“Pleased to meet you all,” Constance said, a slight blush staining her cheeks as attention focused on her. “You must all call me Constance, however; I fear I am unused to such formality.”
“Among soldiers, Constance, you will find that formality forms a thin veneer indeed,” Milady said. “I believe you will fit right in.”
Athos raised a wry eyebrow. “I do believe we have just been insulted, d’Artagnan, though I confess I’m not entirely certain,” he said.
Constance laughed softly, and just like that, the tension broke.
“Please, let us say a blessing and eat before the food gets cold,” M. Rougeux urged, and the little company lowered their heads for a brief prayer before filling their plates with bread and stew, chatting amiably as they ate.
“Where are Porthos and Aramis?” d’Artagnan asked. “I was hoping Constance would have a chance to meet them as well.”
“They’re on patrol duty this evening,” de Tréville said. “We’re a bit short-handed with all of the extra labor needed to clean up after the battle.”
Conversation sobered with the reminder of the morning’s bloodshed. In answer to Athos’ query, d’Artagnan repeated his report on their casualties, further dampening the mood. He cast about for a change of topic, but before he could settle on anything de Tréville stepped in, addressing Constance.
“Madame,” he began, belying with a single word Milady’s earlier accusation of informality, “I thank you for accepting d’Artagnan’s invitation to dine with us tonight. He told me earlier that you might have a connection within Isabella’s court. Is this true?”
Constance appeared somewhat taken aback, but quickly recovered herself. “Well... yes, I suppose you could say that. My godfather, M. de La Porte, kept his position at the palace after King Louis was deposed. He lost whatever influence he previously had with the change of power, though.”
“Nonetheless,” de Tréville said, “this connection is of great interest to us. I have asked the Queen to join us, so that we might discuss the matter. Her Majesty should be here shortly.”
“As it happens, I am here now,” said the Queen, entering the room as de Tréville finished speaking. Constance’s eyes, which had grown wide at the Captain’s words, grew even wider. She scrambled to her feet as the others rose from their seats, and immediately dropped into a low curtsy.
“Your Majesty,” she said in a voice that ended on a slight squeak, not raising her eyes.
“Please,” the Queen said with a smile, “be seated, all of you. Constance, is it?”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Constance replied, still sounding faint with shock and excitement.
“Thank you for lending your support to our cause, Constance,” said the Queen. “Your sacrifice and bravery in leaving your home to follow M. d’Aumont’s troops is appreciated.”
“I wish I could do more,” Constance said, only sitting once the Queen was ensconced in her own chair at the head of the table.
“Mme Bonacieux is M. de La Porte’s goddaughter,” de Tréville said, and the Queen blinked in surprise.
“I knew your godfather well, Constance,” she said, “though I was unaware that he now serves my treacherous cousin Isabella.”
“Your Majesty,” Constance said quickly, “it was only because he had a large family to support in uncertain times. I am certain that he would leap at the chance to help put things right.”
“His position in the palace could indeed be helpful to us,” said the Queen. “I must discuss it with my advisors.”
Milady pushed her chair back from the table. “Constance,” she said, “if you are finished with your meal, perhaps you would care to join me in the parlor for a few minutes while the soldiers talk endlessly about strategy. Mme. Rougeux keeps a fine blackberry brandy in reserve for special occasions, and I’m sure she could be persuaded to part with a bit of it.”
“Of course,” Constance said, gracing d’Artagnan with a slightly uncertain smile. “It was an honor to meet you all. Gentlemen... Your Majesty.” With that, she rose and curtsied once more to the Queen before allowing Milady to usher her out of the room.
When the door had closed and the ladies’ footsteps receded, the Queen addressed d’Artagnan. “It appears that you have cultivated an acquaintance who is both charming and valuable, my dear d’Artagnan.”
D’Artagnan forced himself to hold her gaze as he replied, “I have known her for only a few hours, Your Majesty, but during that time she has proven herself to be a brave and compassionate woman.”
The Queen smiled. “Then you have done well to befriend her, whether or not anything comes of her connection to M. de La Porte. Captain, what say you on the matter?”
“It’s too early to know. Perhaps we should start by having her send a letter to her godfather, as a way of renewing their acquaintance should we decide to pursue it further in the future,” said de Tréville.
“That seems sensible,” said the Queen. “Now, what of your meeting this afternoon?”
“D’Aumont and I agree that the next step must be a move to Chartres. La Croix-du-Perche cannot support the troops we have now for any significant period of time, and more are sure to follow as word of the new King’s birth spreads,” de Tréville said. “In Chartres, we can establish a seat of power from which to move on Paris. In addition to being one step closer to the Louvre, Chartres is far more defensible than a rural area, and has more resources.”
“My son is not yet strong enough to travel,” said the Queen, “but when he is, your plan sounds like a sensible one and I will support it wholeheartedly.”
Athos spoke up, and d’Artagnan was pleased that he sounded more himself today than the last time they had spoken; his injuries were slowly healing under the attentive care of his wife and friends. “We are likely to enjoy a lull after this morning’s battle, for several days at least—probably more. It will take time for the remnants of Isabella’s force to regroup and report back to Paris about the level of support that the Queen now enjoys,” he said. “It will take even more time for her to mount a force large enough to overpower us. It seems to me that our priority during this period should be to ready our troops for travel and outfit them with as many weapons as possible.”
“The attackers did not damage the smithy’s forge,” d’Artagnan said, “and although work on the charcoal kiln was slowed by the attack, it was still well underway when I passed by earlier this evening. I did not see the blacksmith among the dead or injured.”
“That’s good news,” de Tréville said. “D’Aumont, Patenaude, and I agree with you, Athos. Your Majesty, obviously your son’s health and safety are of the very highest priority, but if it is at all possible, I recommend that we try to reach Chartres within the next two weeks. It seems unlikely that Isabella will be able to mount an effective attack before then, and I would much prefer to be somewhere with fortifications when she does.”
“Agreed,” said the Queen. “In the mean time, we must all take this chance to rest as my son grows and gains strength. Athos, has Milady had any success today in finding a wet nurse?”
“Not as yet, Your Majesty. Unfortunately, La Croix-du-Perche is a small village, and while it was not as hard hit by the plague as other places, it still lost many women of child-bearing age.”
“That is unfortunate,” the Queen agreed. “Still, God will provide.” A baby’s faint cry came from the depths of the house. She smiled, her eyes drawn inexorably in the direction of the noise. “And in the mean time, I will provide. Good evening, gentlemen.”
The rest of them rose as she did, bowing as she left the room.
De Tréville turned to Athos and d’Artagnan. “Well, gentlemen, we appear to have a short reprieve. Porthos has drawn up a rota for guard and patrol duty. Beyond that, your time is your own for the next couple of days. Athos, I expect you to rest and regain your strength. D’Artagnan, ask Mme Bonacieux if she would pen a letter for the purpose of renewing her acquaintance with her godfather. Nothing specific, mind you; merely a reopening of the lines of communication. I’ll need to read it before it is sent, to make sure it contains nothing to arouse suspicion.”
“Of course, Captain,” d’Artagnan said. “I will also continue my duties as liaison between our group and the troops at the camp, with your permission. They know me and I’m familiar with the situation, so it wouldn’t make sense to have someone else do it.”
“Good lad,” de Tréville said. “Off you go, now—no doubt your charming guest is missing your company.”
“Thank you, sir,” d’Artagnan said. He glanced at Athos, who had reseated himself at the table. “Athos, do you need any help before I go?”
Athos waved him off irritably. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m perfectly fine.”
D’Artagnan didn’t consider it ridiculous, since Athos had barely been able to walk under his own power the last time he’d seen him, but he supposed Milady would be back at her husband’s side soon after d’Artagnan rejoined Constance. With that thought in mind, he nodded and took his leave, knocking softly on the doorframe of the parlor to announce his presence before entering. Constance looked up at him with shining eyes from her perch on the edge of one of the padded chairs, a tremulous smile on her lips.
D’Artagnan was unable to parse the expression of combined joy and sadness flooding Constance’s face. “What is it?” he asked. His eyes darted to Milady, who was leaning against the mantel of the large fireplace, sipping her brandy. “Is everything all right?”
Milady only gave an enigmatic half-smile, and said, “I’ll leave you two to talk. It was lovely meeting you, Constance. We’ll discuss details in the morning.”
“Details?” d’Artagnan asked, once Milady had excused herself from the room. Tears spilled over Constance's cheeks. He fell to one knee in front of her, taking her hands in his. “Details of what, Constance? Why are you crying?”
Constance let out a noise that was half laugh, half sob. “D’Artagnan... Milady just asked me to become a wet nurse... for the King of France!”
D’Artagnan gaped up at her stupidly while his mind chewed over the implications of her words. “A wet nurse. You... have a baby?” he asked finally.
Constance’s expression, which had wandered more fully towards radiant happiness as she spoke, veered back to sadness. “Not anymore,” she whispered. “She died of a fever two weeks ago.”
“Oh, Constance,” he said, her words causing his chest to ache as if her grief was his own. He squeezed her hands in sympathy. “I’m so sorry.”
Constance visibly gathered herself, blinking back her tears and clutching his hands in return. “That’s kind. Honestly, though, the last few days I've been so much better—coming here, staying busy all the time. Being of use. And now this! Imagine me, of all people, meeting with the Queen. Then Milady and I were chatting, and we heard the baby cry. And... well... ” She glanced down self-consciously, and d’Artagnan followed her gaze to the twin wet spots soaking through her borrowed bodice. She looked back up, meeting his eyes with a blush that doubtless mirrored his own. “I helped with my neighbor’s child in Chartres, after, well... after. That’s why I haven’t really dried up, I suppose. Perhaps... perhaps there is another child who needs me now.”
“If my friend Aramis were here, he would no doubt say that God works in mysterious ways, and everything happens for a reason,” d’Artagnan said.
Constance tried to smile, but it was still watery.
“Come,” said d’Artagnan, urging her to her feet. “You must be at least as weary as I am, after such a day. Please allow me to escort you back to your tent. There should be horses we can use in the stable. Do you ride?”
“Not often these days, but my father had two horses when I was growing up,” Constance said.
“I think I can provide a gentle mount for you,” d’Artagnan said, thinking of his father’s pony. “Let’s go saddle up.”
* * *
As luck would have it, he and Constance found Aramis and Porthos rubbing down their sweaty horses by lantern light when they arrived at the stable, the pair having evidently just returned from patrol.
“Hullo, d’Artagnan,” Porthos greeted with a grin. “Good to see you in one piece after the excitement this morning! And who’s this?”
“Hello, Porthos,” d’Artagnan replied. “This is Constance Bonacieux. She and I met earlier today, when Constance was caring for the wounded after the battle. Constance, this is Porthos and Aramis.”
“Nice to meet you, ma’am,” Porthos said.
“Indeed it is,” Aramis echoed, bowing over her hand.
“I fear I’m still a bit overwhelmed by the day’s events,” Constance said, “but it’s lovely to meet both of you, too.”
Noting Aramis’ uncharacteristic stiffness as he straightened, d’Artagnan frowned and asked, “How’s your side, Aramis?”
“Give it a few days and it will be like nothing ever happened,” Aramis said with a smile, raising a careless hand to rest on his ribcage.
“You were injured during the battle, monsieur?” Constance asked.
Aramis tutted. “I found myself in quite a tight spot, as it happens—fighting three men on foot, with enemy riders bearing down on me from behind. When suddenly, out of the blue, d’Artagnan here comes racing in with his sword in his teeth, shooting down a man who was about to put a bullet in me and whisking me onto the horse behind him. The horse and I were both lightly skewered during the fracas, unfortunately, but it’s nothing that won’t heal. I can say with certainty that d’Artagnan saved my life today, for which I am eminently grateful.”
“Fierce as a lion in a fight, is our d’Artagnan,” Porthos added, placing a large hand on Aramis’ shoulder. “You won’t find a braver and more loyal man.”
Constance looked at him with wide eyes in the dim light of the lamps, and d’Artagnan found himself tongue-tied for a moment. “It’s nothing the two of you wouldn’t do for me, as well,” he managed eventually.
Aramis and Porthos both patted him on the upper arm, and wished him and Constance a fine evening before heading toward the house.
“You have good friends, here,” Constance said softly, once they’d left.
“I do,” d’Artagnan forced through a throat thick with unexpected feelings. He coughed surreptitiously and glanced at the stalls lining the edge of the barn. There were fewer fresh horses available than he’d thought there would be, but his old pony stood stalwart at one end, munching hay. D’Artagnan’s eye was immediately drawn to the irritated flick of a short, ragged tail in the next stall. “Hmm, I thought we’d have more of a choice of mounts. Stay here for a moment and let me see if the broom-tailed mare is sound.”
Unfortunately, d’Artagnan had not thought to procure an apple core or crust of bread at dinner for the little mare. In their often contentious relationship, such small offerings seemed to grease the wheels, so to speak, so he was not surprised when his approach was greeted with sullenly pinned ears and a halfhearted snap of teeth.
“Hello to you, too,” he said with resignation, attaching a rope to the horse’s halter and leading her into the aisle. He could detect no lameness at the walk, and only a faint head-bobbing when he urged her into a few steps of reluctant trotting. “Good enough for a short walk to camp and back, I think,” he decided, and led her to one of the tie rings set in the wall of the structure.
With a smile for Constance as he passed, he made his way to the tack room and hung two bridles over his right shoulder. Grabbing a saddle under each arm, he dropped one set of tack onto a rack near where the mare was tied, and took the other to the pony’s stall, intent on readying a mount for Constance first. He hummed a bit as he adjusted the girth around the old gelding’s plump barrel, and took up the straps of the bridle until the bit hung comfortably in the animal’s mouth.
Grabbing the reins, he led the pony out of the stall. Before he had gone five steps, he glanced up and jerked to a stop as if he had walked into a solid wall. At the end of the aisle stood Grimaud’s mare, saddled and ready, with her head nestled comfortably against Constance’s torso, eyes closed in bliss as the young woman stroked her cheek, scratching softly under the straps of the bridle.
“What—?” he said, brilliantly.
Constance looked up at him, from where she had been crooning softly to the mare. “Such a sweet animal,” she said. “She’s lovely. Is she yours?”
As it happened, after Grimaud’s death Athos had, at one point, turned to him on the road and said, “If you want the mare, then take her; she’s yours,” when d’Artagnan asked what he planned to do with his former servant’s mount. D’Artagnan hadn’t answered Athos properly, preoccupied as he was by their dire circumstances at the time.
“I suppose she is,” he replied. “But. No. Wait. You don’t understand. She hates everyone.”
The horse opened one eye and blinked at him, her head still tucked securely in the cradle of Constance’s arms. Constance looked at him askance. “Evidently not,” she said. “Perhaps she only mislikes some people. Maybe she was ill-used, and distrusts those who remind her of her tormenter.”
“Perhaps so. I’ve really no idea,” d’Artagnan said, regaining himself a bit. “Whatever the case, she is something of a challenge to ride. I had thought you might ride my father’s gelding, who is gentle and calm and has recently been the mount of the Queen herself.”
“Oh, no!” Constance said quickly. “I shouldn’t like to usurp Her Majesty’s preferred mount. I’ll take the mare. I’m sure she’ll be fine.”
D’Artagnan watched with some trepidation as Constance led Grimaud’s mare outside and positioned herself with one bent knee for him to help her into the saddle. Once d’Artagnan lifted her into place, the little horse stood calm and docile as a pup while Constance arranged her skirts and placed her feet in the stirrups, keeping one eye and one ear fastened attentively on her rider.
Shaking his head in amazement, d’Artagnan mounted his pony and the two headed back toward the camp at a leisurely pace.
“Tell me a little more about yourself,” Constance said as they rode side-by-side. “It seems as though I’ve gone on and on about my own past, but I know next to nothing of yours.”
“There’s not much to tell,” d’Artagnan said, feeling himself tense up at the thought of discussing his past. “The plague hit Gascony hard, and I decided to come north to seek other opportunities. I came upon Her Majesty’s entourage quite by chance, and they were kind enough to make a place for me.”
“You’ve lost people, haven’t you,” Constance said after a moment, not posing it as a question.
The tension in his chest ratcheted higher. “Yes,” he said in a tone that did not invite further comment, and was relieved when Constance didn’t pursue it.
“The Queen and those around her seem to be extraordinary individuals,” she said instead. “I still can’t believe they’re interested in someone like me.”
“I can,” d’Artagnan said simply, relaxing again.
When they arrived at the tent Constance was sharing with two other women, d’Artagnan helped her down from her horse, and she looked up at him, her eyes bright with reflected firelight from the cooking fires scattered around the camp. Her waist was warm under his hands where he steadied her, and her lower lip caught between her teeth.
“Thank you for coming with me tonight,” he said, his voice sounding slightly hoarse.
“D’Artagnan, you defended me from that man who tried to drag me away from poor Pascal this morning, and then you took me to meet the Queen. I’m fairly certain I’m the one who should be thanking you.”
She licked her lips, and suddenly d’Artagnan could not look away. Moving slowly, he closed the gap between him, feeling more than hearing her faint intake of breath in the instant before their lips touched. Emboldened when she did not pull away, d’Artagnan deepened the kiss, tasting the faint tang from the blackberry brandy she had imbibed earlier. After a few seconds, though, he stilled. Constance was standing stiff and braced, as if frozen in place. Her unmoving lips did not respond to his. He stepped backward quickly, removing his hands from her hips, and her eyes flew open.
“What are you doing?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”
“Forgive me,” d’Artagnan said, mortified. “I misread the situation. I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“Offend me?” Constance said. “D’Artagnan...”
D’Artagnan shook his head, picking up the mare’s reins and backing away until he could mount his gelding. “I’m sorry, Constance, it won’t happen again,” he said, looking down at her from the saddle. “I hope we can still be friends. Thank you for a pleasant evening.”
With that, he whirled and rode off, eager to leave the scene of his embarrassment. How could he have misunderstood the signals so badly? Constance was recently widowed; she’d lost a baby two weeks ago, for God’s sake. Why on earth would she be interested in someone like him?
* * *
The night passed restlessly. For the first time since de Tréville had forbidden him to use the cat o’ nine tails, d’Artagnan found his back itching and tingling as he thought about his humiliating misstep. His sleep, what there was of it, was punctuated by odd and disturbing dreams. Eventually he gave up and rose in the darkness, dressing himself by feel to avoid disturbing Porthos, who snored next to him in the borrowed room.
He thought to find privacy and comfort in the stables, currying his pony or doing some other odd job to quiet his mind, but when he arrived he was surprised to find lanterns lit and cheerful whistling coming from within. Inside, Aramis was seated on an upturned barrel, oiling leather straps with a greasy rag. He looked up sharply at the sound of d’Artagnan’s approach, but relaxed when he saw who it was.
“Well, well,” he said. “Once more we meet in an empty stable when most other reasonable people are abed.”
“Is sleep eluding you as well?” d’Artagnan asked, well aware of Aramis’ insomniac tendencies.
“Sleep generally eludes me,” Aramis replied, “or leads me on a merry chase before conceding defeat, at the very least. What of you, though? I’d have thought you’d be enjoying sweet dreams of the lovely Constance this evening.”
“I may possibly have done something very stupid,” d’Artagnan said miserably. He shook his head in reply to Aramis’ questioning noise, grabbing a second rag and a bridle from the pile the other man was working on before sliding down the wall across from him and rubbing fitfully at the dry leather. To his relief, Aramis let him be, and the two of them worked silently for a few minutes before the peace was shattered by the sound of piteous mewling.
A small, gray kitten stuck its nose out from behind a pile of hay, and slunk into view along the wall until it was close enough to leap onto the barrel, and then, to Aramis’ shoulder. From this new perch, it observed d’Artagnan with a baleful gaze, even as the rumble of contented purring filled the space between them.
“Ah. Back again, I see,” Aramis said, making no attempt to dislodge the little beast.
“New friend of yours?” d’Artagnan asked, eager for any distraction from his thoughts.
“She seems to have decided that my shoulder offers a better view of the barn than her usual haunts,” Aramis said. “Really, d’Artagnan; I'm shocked. Has no one mentioned to you before that females find me irresistible? I shall need to have words with the others; what an unconscionable oversight on their part.”
D’Artagnan’s eyes fell back to the straps in his lap. “Unfortunately, I cannot say the same of myself after last night,” he said, deciding that a bit of commiseration from a sympathetic listener was worth the embarrassment of relating his faux pas.
Aramis’ keen gaze was on him in an instant. “If you are referring to Constance,” said the other man, “I am fairly certain you’re mistaken in your assessment. What in heaven’s name happened between the two of you after you left us, to leave you so downtrodden?”
“I kissed her,” d’Artagnan said miserably. “But she was offended, and did not want me, so I apologized and left.”
“Considering the way she was looking at you earlier in the evening, I find that to be... surprising, to say the least. Did she push you away? Tell you to go?”
“Not exactly,” replied d’Artagnan. “She froze, and did not respond at all to my advances. It was obvious she wanted me to stop. So I did.”
“As you should have, certainly,” Aramis allowed. “Still, did she say nothing to you about it afterward?”
“Not really, no. Though it’s... possible that I didn’t really give her a chance to do so. I left fairly hastily in the aftermath.”
“Ah, callow youth,” Aramis murmured under his breath, ignoring the kitten as it batted playfully at a lock of his hair. He continued at a more normal volume. “D’Artagnan, it seems obvious, having seen the two of you together, that she is attracted to you. I don’t know why she reacted the way she did. Perhaps you moved too fast with your advances, or caught her by surprise in the moment. The only way to find out is to ask her and listen to whatever she has to say. Don’t give up on things without finding out the truth of it first. All right?”
D’Artagnan thought through his friend’s words, realizing that he had, indeed, allowed his own discomfort to take precedence over finding out what the problem truly was. “I will,” he said after a moment. “Thank you, Aramis.”
“Think nothing of it,” Aramis said magnanimously. His careless shrug dislodged the little cat clinging to his shoulder, and she leapt to the ground with a startled hiss. Aramis flinched and reached up to tug his collar to the side, revealing an angry, red claw mark where neck met shoulder. He huffed a laugh at himself, and added, “I should also mention that females can occasionally be fickle creatures.”
* * *
The following day, when Constance came to the house to talk with Milady about the position of wet nurse, d’Artagnan contrived to speak to her privately for a few moments. He apologized again for kissing her, and asked how he had offended her. She would only reply that he had not offended her in the least, and seemed confused at his insistence on the subject, which in turn left him confused.
As time passed, Constance continued to seek out his company. She began spending most of her time at M. Rougeux’s chateau, helping with the baby and acting as a lady’s maid for the Queen, a position that obviously delighted her. D’Artagnan found her presence as alluring as he had the first day he’d met her, but he was also increasingly frustrated by the way she seemed to solicit his advances, while simultaneously reacting to his touch with something suspiciously close to revulsion. With no idea how to address the problem, d’Artagnan resolved to be a friend to her, and nothing more.
That did not, however, stop him waking at night from dreams of her that left him shamefully heated and wanting.
Ten days after the decision to move the troops to Chartres, the Queen decreed that her son was strong enough to make the journey. A messenger was sent ahead, bearing a letter with both the royal seal and the seal of Antoine d’Aumont de Rochebaron, to warn the city officials of their arrival three days hence. Belongings were packed in preparation for an early start the next morning. The troops celebrated and caroused long into the night.
The morning of July twenty-third dawned clear and bright. D’Artagnan, riding a horse borrowed from one of the townsfolk, made his way through the remains of the camp, overseeing the final loading of the wagons and carts. Detritus littered the trampled dirt and grass of the village green, but the caravan was finally ready to move out in the wake of the lines of foot soldiers arrayed behind d’Aumont and his lieutenants. They awaited only the Queen’s retinue.
The sound of horses approaching from west of the church heralded Her Majesty’s arrival, and d’Artagnan rode forward to meet them as they came into view around the walls of the chapel. He had some idea of what to expect, but that didn’t stop him from catching his breath at the sight which greeted him.
No fragile flower enclosed in a gilded carriage, the Queen led her procession riding astride and wearing the bespoke armor that d’Artagnan had earlier mistaken for that of a youth. The camp’s blacksmith had outdone himself. The cuirass shone in the dawn light. Her Majesty’s crown rested on the sparkling chain mail coif that draped over her head and neck. Spaulders and vambraces protected her shoulders and arms. The glint of a spur peeked out from voluminous skirts that perfectly matched the color of the aged yellow gelding she rode.
D’Artagnan blinked, and blinked again. The old pony he had ridden since childhood strode forward with an arched neck and a bearing regal enough to match that of its rider, almost as if the beast could sense the honor that it had received. A gleaming metal champron covered the gelding’s face from ears to muzzle, matching the style of the Queen’s armor exactly. In the rays of early morning sunlight, the horse’s shiny coat was not the color of a buttercup—it was the color of beaten gold.
Behind the Queen, Constance—riding the broom-tailed mare and bearing the infant King in a sling close to her breast—rode side by side with Milady. Porthos, Athos, Aramis, and de Tréville were arrayed around them protectively. A gap on the Queen’s left caught d’Artagnan’s attention, and suddenly, ridiculously, he found his eyes burning with unshed tears.
That was the place they had made for him.
