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ATHOS GRABBED HIS WRIST, deflecting the blow with a grunt of effort and redirecting d'Artagnan's momentum forward, trapping him against Athos’ own body. A too-strong hand wrested the whip from his sweaty grip—Porthos. He heard it hit the wall with a dull thump and fall to the floor across the room where the big man threw it.
Rage overcame d’Artagnan and he fought the arms trapping him, frantic to escape before the gray fog receded completely and he was lost. Before he had to feel—
Oh, God.
His father. His mother. His baby sister.
Aramis.
Oh, God. Oh, God.
He writhed against Athos’ hold; cursed and spat and clawed at the leather jerkin under his hands, trying to free himself—not recognizing the embrace for what it was until he felt Porthos’ solid warmth settle against his back, pinning him even closer against Athos’ body. D’Artagnan froze, every muscle rigid. There was an agonizingly long pause, and finally an awful noise tore itself free of his chest, only to be repeated with the next choking breath, and the next, and the next.
Porthos’ voice, low and rumbling. Warm breath against his ear. “Shht. There now... That’s it. Let it out. We’ve got you, whelp. This has been a long time coming. Let it out, now. We’re right here with you.”
D’Artagnan keened his grief into Athos’ shoulder, his hands fisting in the other man’s clothing. His knees buckled, but strong arms kept him upright, pressed between two solid bodies. He couldn’t breathe with the force of his sobs... the thick snot and tears smothering him. It felt as though it went on for hours. He was absolutely certain he would never again be able to gather all the broken shards of himself together and mend them, but his friends wrapped him up tightly and did not let the shattered pieces scatter away on the wind.
Finally, exhausted, his chest as sore from weeping as if he’d been kicked by a mule, d’Artagnan managed to draw a deep, unhindered breath, and then another.
“Sorry...” he whispered into Athos’ collar, barely recognizing his own voice. “I’m s-sorry. Oh, God, I’m so sorry...”
“Hush,” Athos said severely. His voice softened slightly as he continued, “How great a heart you must have, d’Artagnan, to grieve so. Would that I still had such tears within me.”
Porthos eased him back a bit, away from Athos, slinging one of d’Artagnan’s arms over his shoulders and wrapping his own arm around d’Artagnan’s waist. “C’mon,” he said. “Let’s get you upstairs.”
D’Artagnan let himself be led, feeling as though not an ounce of strength remained in his body. He was vaguely aware of steps leading upward... a hallway, and then they were entering Aramis’ sick room, where Milady rose to her feet upon seeing their strange procession. Aramis was awake, sitting up against the headboard. D’Artagnan pulled away from Porthos; stumbled to the bed and fell to his knees beside it, clasping one of Aramis’ hands between both of his own. Aramis looked at him, worry clouding his pale, haggard features; then looked at Athos and Porthos, a question in his fever-bright eyes.
“Please don’t die. Please, Aramis,” d’Artagnan begged, bringing the sick man’s captured hand up to press it to the side of his tear-stained face. Aramis’ eyes flew back to his. Held for a moment. Softened. The hand cradled d’Artagnan’s cheek, thumb wiping at the wetness there. He could feel the fine tremor of fatigue and illness in the long, callused fingers.
“I’ll do my very best,” Aramis vowed, his voice sober. “Now, though, come rest with me for awhile.” He looked at Porthos and Athos again. “Help him up on the bed.”
Hands lifted d’Artagnan onto the bed and removed his boots. Aramis pulled him into a loose embrace. D’Artagnan could hear the older man’s heart beating with a steady thump under his ear. Darkness claimed him, and he knew no more.
* * *
When d’Artagnan next regained awareness, he was face-down on a pillow, his jaw damp from pressing into a wet stain of drool. He groaned and rolled onto his side. His head felt thick and sore, and his chest still hurt. The rest of him simply felt... empty.
“Ah, good,” said a raspy voice to his side and slightly above him. “We were starting to worry. Perhaps I should remind you that I’m supposed to be the sick one, here.”
“Aramis?” he croaked, and tried without success to clear his throat.
“The very same,” Aramis replied, as Athos appeared in his field of vision, proffering a cup.
D’Artagnan struggled into a sitting position and accepted the drink. The acidic tang of un-watered wine cut through the phlegm clogging his throat, and he drank greedily. When he was finished, Athos took the cup back and placed it on the table by the bed. Though he wasn’t tired any more, d’Artagnan wished for nothing more than to return to the dreamless oblivion from which he had just emerged... better that, than this feeling of being a wrung-out rag slapped carelessly over the edge of a dirty mop bucket.
“How long?” he asked, knowing it would be expected of him.
“You slept all day, and into the night,” Athos said. “It’s slightly after midnight.”
“Oh,” d’Artagnan said.
“We received another letter from de Tréville,” Athos continued. “We know about the death of your pony last night. I assume that’s why—?”
“Yes,” d’Artagnan said.
“Are you hungry?” Aramis asked. “You haven’t eaten in more than a day.”
“No,” d’Artagnan said.
“As you wish,” Aramis said. “You should know, though, that I have not forgotten my promise to you while you’ve been sleeping. To that end, I prevailed upon Porthos to make some gruel, and consumed a small amount over the course of yesterday afternoon with far more success than the unfortunate incident with the broth.”
A small thread of interest pierced d’Artagnan’s lethargy. “Really?” he asked. “That’s good.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Aramis replied.
Athos had made himself at home in a chair near the bed, and it was from there that he spoke. “We are all in agreement, then. Now, though, you should both try to rest some more. It is the middle of the night, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“I’ve always said you were a born leader, Athos,” Aramis said. “And by ‘leader,’ I mean ‘tyrant,’ of course. That said, I do find myself slightly fatigued.”
D’Artagnan was fairly sure he would not be able to rest anymore after having slept almost eighteen hours straight. Nonetheless, he lay back against the mattress, flipping the pillow over to get rid of the wet spot, and closed his eyes with a sigh.
When he opened them again, it was light outside the window.
“Wha—?” he slurred, drawing Aramis’ attention from the bowl resting in his lap.
“Good morning,” Aramis said. “Apparently you really needed to catch up on your sleep.”
Aramis returned to his breakfast, prompting d’Artagnan’s stomach to give a loud and thoroughly embarrassing growl. Porthos appeared at the bedside a moment later, shoving a similar bowl and spoon into d’Artagnan’s hands.
“Here,” said the big man. “Eat.”
D’Artagnan carefully squirmed into a sitting position, mindful of spilling gruel on the blanket. He dipped the spoon into the congealed gray mass and raised it to his lips. After rolling it around in his mouth and swallowing, he turned to Aramis.
“This is absolutely disgusting,” he said, and promptly went back to eating.
“Yes,” Aramis agreed thoughtfully. “It really rather is. But since it actually stays down when I eat it, I wasn’t going to say anything.”
“Told you that you should have let me put salt in it,” Porthos said. “That’s how we used to eat it at home.”
Aramis made a face. “No offense, dear Porthos, but that sounds even worse.”
“Huh,” Porthos huffed. “And here you are, always going on about your refined palate.”
“I do not ‘go on’ about my palate,” Aramis replied.
D’Artagnan ate his disgusting gruel and let the familiar bickering wash over him. He mentally poked at the empty space in his chest, the way one might poke at the gap left by a lost tooth. While he didn’t necessarily feel better after his embarrassing display, he did feel... different, he supposed. Fragile, perhaps. The thought bothered him, even if the others didn’t seem to be treating him any differently than before.
Milady entered the room and d’Artagnan looked up, grateful for the distraction.
“There’s another note from de Tréville this morning,” she said, “along with a letter specifically for you, d’Artagnan.”
D’Artagnan’s brow furrowed, his curiosity piqued almost despite himself.
“From Constance,” she clarified, and handed him the sealed rectangle of folded paper.
Porthos crossed his arms, leaning a shoulder against the wall as he caught d’Artagnan’s eye.
“You know, she came here yesterday morning, to let us know something was wrong. She didn’t come inside,” Porthos hastened to add, seeing d’Artagnan’s alarm at the idea that Constance might have endangered herself. “She stood outside and threw gravel at the window until Athos opened it. Said she couldn’t sleep and had been taking a turn around the grounds when you ran past her, carrying a whip and not even seeming to realize she was there. Told us which door you’d gone in, so we knew where to start looking.”
“I heard someone call my name, but I didn’t recognize who it was,” d’Artagnan admitted, stricken.
“She’s quite a woman,” Porthos said, “and she really cares for you, you know.”
“I think I’m finally starting to understand that,” he said, his voice a bit shaky.
Milady had been skimming de Tréville’s note, and said, “There’s a message here from the Queen regarding your pony, d’Artagnan. She says she was saddened to hear of the animal’s passing and will always think upon him kindly. She adds that the pony saved her life when she was hiding from her enemies, and she wishes you to choose any horse you desire from among the enemy’s captured mounts, in recompense for allowing her to use him.”
D’Artagnan hadn’t even started to come to terms with the loss of the pony itself, and he was still struggling hard with the symbolic loss of the connection to his family. He was appalled to find tears flooding his eyes once more upon hearing the Queen’s kind words, and he hunched forward over his knees, hiding his face in his hands. Fingers carded through the fine hair at the base of his skull, settling in a firm grip on the back of his neck, for all that the hand still trembled slightly.
“Your pony was a fine and valiant animal, d’Artagnan,” Aramis said. “He lived a long, rich life and carried the Queen of France on his back, riding at the head of her army. Also, he brought you to us, for which we are all very grateful.”
D’Artagnan’s shoulders shook, and he held his breath, trying to bring himself back under control.
“I don’t think you’re helping, Aramis,” Porthos said. “He’s right, though, d’Artagnan—Buttercup lived quite an amazing life for a strange-looking yellow pony of dubious parentage.”
A completely inappropriate bubble of laughter rose inside d’Artagnan’s chest, and that turned out to be the thing that allowed him to wrestle his emotions back down. He scrubbed his hands over his face to clear the tears and mock-glared at Porthos, Aramis’ hand still resting on his neck. “My horse’s name was not Buttercup, Porthos.”
Porthos grinned, completely unrepentant. “Well, the Queen herself named him, so I think you’ll find that it really was.”
“You named him, you great—” he cut himself off, unable to think of a suitably cutting insult, but Porthos only continued to grin at him.
“Really?” said the big man. “Strange, that’s not how I remember things at all.”
Aramis snorted as he set aside his bowl of gruel. “Your memory can be shockingly selective in some areas, Porthos. D’Artagnan, pay him no mind. Go find yourself some privacy to read your letter from Constance. As for me, I believe I’ll try to sleep again.”
D’Artagnan started to get out of bed, but frowned. “I should have asked earlier, Aramis,” he said. “How are you feeling this morning?”
Aramis shrugged the shoulder that was not painfully swollen, and tried to smile at him. “The stomach cramps come and go. The rest of it is what it is. I haven’t forgotten my promise to you. Go read your letter. I’ll still be here when you get back.”
D’Artagnan nodded in acknowledgement after a slight, troubled pause. He rose to his feet, taking a moment to steady himself against the bedpost after having been in bed for more than a day. The room on the far side of Athos and Milady’s was mostly empty except for a few items they had stored there to keep them out of the way. Rather than bother with a chamber pot, d’Artagnan relieved himself out the window, into the shrubbery below. With a deep sigh of relief, he laced up his breeches and seated himself at the room’s dusty desk and broke the seal on the letter, smoothing the page so he could read Constance’s light, curving hand.
Dearest d’Artagnan,
I wish you were here, so we could speak face-to-face. The Queen explained about your pony—how you had ridden him since you were a boy, and how he was one of the last connections you had to your family. I wasn’t sure what to do the other morning when I saw you and you seemed so distraught. I hope I was right to tell the others; I hope they found you and were able to help.
I’ve been thinking a lot about things, these past few days. You’ve been so kind to me, but I know that I’ve disappointed you because I can’t seem to act like the other women that I see with their sweethearts. Kissing and giggling and sitting in their beaus’ laps. I don’t know why I’m so broken; why I can’t enjoy it like everyone else seems to... but, I’d like to try again. If you’ll have me, that is.
The thrice-damned tears were returning again, and d’Artagnan blinked them back angrily, the words blurring on the page.
I’m frightened for you, d’Artagnan. For all of you, of course, but for you, especially. I know you’ve lost so much already. You don’t like to talk about it, but I can tell. Maybe it’s because I have lost people as well. Please come back to me, when this is over. And in the mean time, write to me. I think that would help.
Your loving friend,
Constance
Since there was no one present to see, d’Artagnan dropped his head onto his forearms for a few moments and let the tears come as they would. His heart was torn between hope at Constance’s words, and dread of what they faced in the next few days. It had been three-and-a-half days since Aramis fell ill, and it was generally the third or fourth day when those with the plague began the final descent into death—growing delirious, with their hands and feet blackening as the body died from the extremities inward.
He could not allow his terror at what was to come show to the others. That would be sheer cruelty—they shared the same fears as he did, and chose to cloak them in banter and stoic bravery. There was no one he could turn to for solace as long as Aramis still lived... or perhaps there was. He raised his head, scrubbing the heel of his hand over his eyes, and looked down at the letter. The ink was smeared now in places where his tears had landed on the paper.
He would write to Constance. He would try to share some of the broken places within himself with her, as she had shared hers with him. With new determination, d’Artagnan rose and folded the letter, placing it within his jerkin, next to his heart.
He returned to Aramis’ room and washed his face and arms in the bowl of water on the table in the corner. Not wanting to wake Aramis or Porthos—who was dozing on the settle—he caught Milady’s attention and mimed writing with a quill. She nodded her understanding, gracing him with an approving twitch of one finely drawn eyebrow. Disappearing through the door, she returned silently a few moments later with paper, quill, ink, sand, and wax. D’Artagnan mouthed a thank you as he took the items and returned to the desk in the dusty storage room.
The words came slowly, and with difficulty. Twice, he crumpled up the paper on which he was writing and started over from the beginning. He told Constance that any disappointment he had felt was because he thought that she was rejecting his advances outright and did not care for him. He told her the idea that she wanted to try again filled him with joy, and that he wished only to make her happy.
He talked a bit about his family, trying to explain how their loss had made him want to wall up his grief so he would not have to feel it; how those walls seemed now to be crumbling, and how he feared to discover what would be left within the rubble when all was said and done. It helped, he told her, to think of her waiting for him, and to know that he could look forward to more letters from her. When he could think of nothing else to add, he signed it “Your devoted friend” and sprinkled the fine, powdery sand over the page to dry the ink before rolling it up and sealing it with a blob of melted wax.
After delivering the missive to Milady to be added in with their usual daily report, d’Artagnan wandered down to the kitchen to make them a meal. De Tréville continued to supply them with food, but the selection was becoming less varied and it was apparent that the siege was starting to take its toll. He started a fire and set more grain to simmering for Aramis’ gruel, then stared at the basket, trying to think of something that could be made using turnips and onions. There was a bit of the chicken broth from the other day left in a pot, sitting in a cool, shadowed nook in the stone wall. A fine dusting of mold was growing on the yellow cap of congealed fat floating on top, but when he scooped the fat away and discarded it, the broth below was clear and smelled all right.
It needed to be used anyway, so he set it next to the fire to boil while he chopped the root vegetables into thin slices. Throwing everything into the pot along with a bit of wine for flavoring, he pulled it away far enough that it would simmer, cooking the vegetables while the broth slowly reduced. The bread from yesterday was stale but not moldy. He crumbled up some of it and threw it into the pot as well, to thicken the broth. The rest, he sliced and toasted over the fire on a long metal fork while the other things cooked. A quick rummage uncovered a couple of wrinkly plums at the bottom of the basket, which he chopped into a juicy puree and added to the gruel. After a couple of seconds’ thought, he added a dash of wine to the gruel as well. When he tasted the resulting mush a few minutes later, it was disgusting with a hint of sweetness, which d’Artagnan decided to count as a victory.
He ladled the gruel into a bowl and the cooked vegetables with their thickened sauce into a large dish, arranging the slices of toasted bread on top. Covering the dish, he balanced the bowl of gruel on the lid, grabbed a bottle of wine from their diminishing supply, and carefully made his way upstairs to the others.
“I made food,” he announced, entering Aramis’ room to find everyone awake and gathered there.
“Ah! I knew there was a reason I liked you!” Porthos said, rising to take the bowl of gruel for Aramis from him. “Smells good, too.”
“Actually...” Aramis’ weak voice drew d’Artagnan’s attention to the bed, and to the sick man’s greenish complexion. “D’Artagnan, I’m so sorry... but could I prevail on you to take the rest of that next door? The smell is a bit much for me just now.”
“Aramis, forgive me!” d’Artagnan apologized, feeling awful. “I didn’t think! I can take the gruel away, too, if it’s bothering you.”
“No, no,” Aramis said with a wan smile. “Give me a few minutes, and I’m sure it will be fine. Take Porthos with you—he seems to be on the verge of starvation, based on the way his stomach is rumbling.”
D’Artagnan nodded and exited the room, hearing one of the others cross and open the window to let in some air as he did so. Porthos followed him and took the bottle wine from his hand to open it.
“Don’t feel bad. Like he said earlier, the stomach problems come and go,” Porthos said. “To be honest, I’m surprised it’s not worse after more than three days.”
“Tonight will most likely be the turning point,” Athos said from the doorway as he entered.
“That has been my experience as well,” d’Artagnan said. He paused, torn between not wanting to talk about it, and needing to know. “How did Milady’s illness progress?”
“She reached the crisis point on the third day,” Athos replied, his voice carefully even. “She became delirious, and the skin of her feet began to blacken. But where everyone else died, she... did not. She lingered at death’s door for days, and on the seventh day she began to get better. It was weeks until she was able to leave her sickbed, and months before she was completely recovered... but she lived.”
“I did lose the tips of two toes, though,” Milady said, joining them in the room. “Sometimes I still miss them.”
“Enough of this talk,” Porthos said, sounding uncomfortable. “Let’s eat.”
The others agreed, and took turns scooping soft vegetables and sauce onto the slices of golden bread.
“This is really good, d’Artagnan,” Porthos said around a mouthful, and the others murmured agreement.
“If there’s one thing Gascons are good at,” d’Artagnan said, “it’s food.”
“Food, and stubbornness,” added Athos, who had ample reason to know.
D’Artagnan silently toasted him with the bottle of wine, taking a swig before passing it around, since no one had thought to bring cups. Porthos finished his meal quickly, excusing himself to return to Aramis. The others lingered over the food and drink for a few more minutes before joining them.
Aramis was just setting aside his half-finished bowl of gruel when they walked in. “Well, d’Artagnan,” he said. “I must say I’m impressed. Porthos, you should take notes on this—he’s managed to make gruel halfway palatable. I only wish I were in a condition to properly appreciate it.”
D’Artagnan forced himself to smile. “Perhaps later,” he said.
The rest of the day passed in desultory conversation and whatever distraction the five of them could muster. D’Artagnan slept a bit on the unforgiving wooden settle, jerking awake after a few hours, but unable to remember the contents of the dream which had disturbed his rest.
The following morning, Aramis’ condition was roughly the same... as it was the morning after that, and the morning after that. On the seventh day, Porthos removed his hand from Aramis’ forehead and said, “Does it feel to you as though your fever is down a bit?”
“My tongue doesn’t feel quite so dry and swollen today, I suppose,” Aramis said.
“How are your joints?” Porthos asked.
“They ache,” Aramis replied.
“What about your head?”
“It aches.”
“Your stomach?”
“Fine, at the moment.”
“Fingers and toes?”
Aramis kicked off the sheet and presented the appendages in question for inspection. “Still the right color,” he said.
D’Artagnan watched the discussion carefully, wondering if it was too soon to start hoping.
* * *
At the end of the second week, Aramis was still weak and shaky, but his symptoms had improved considerably. The areas around his neck, armpit, and groin remained tender, but the swelling and redness had largely receded. Even the odd, blister-like pustules around the half-healed cat scratch on his shoulder had disappeared, and he was able to eat as long as he stuck to bland foods.
The following morning, de Tréville threw open the door to the south wing and strode up the stairs to the set of rooms they’d been using, his footsteps echoing along the hallway.
“Captain!” d’Artagnan said in surprise, scrambling to his feet from the chair in which he’d been slumped. Aramis snuffled awake, blinking sleep out of his eyes as de Tréville approached the bed.
“If you were going to die, you’d have done it by now, son,” said the Captain, clasping Aramis’ shoulder. “You all might as well come back to the north wing. You’ll be more comfortable there, and I may have need of you before too long.”
There was something about hearing de Tréville say the words that finally made it real in d’Artagnan’s mind. He’d known that Aramis was slowly getting better, but now, it was as if an unbearable weight was suddenly lifted from him, leaving him almost dizzy at the resulting sensation of lightness.
“I would not like to think that I was putting Their Majesties at risk,” Aramis said cautiously.
“Have any of the others gotten sick?” de Tréville asked.
“No,” d’Artagnan answered for Aramis. “We haven’t.”
“Then you’re not putting anyone at risk,” de Tréville said. “D’Artagnan, wake the others and pack everything up. I want you all back by mid-day.”
“Yes, sir,” d’Artagnan replied, not sure he’d ever been so pleased to follow an order in his life.
The rest of the morning was a flurry of activity as they gathered what belongings they had brought with them and picked up their meager food supplies from the kitchen—almost three weeks into the siege, food was not something to be wasted. Aramis balked at being carried on a stretcher, so they eventually contrived to walk him slowly down the back stairs supported between Porthos and Athos, an arm slung over each of their shoulders to keep him upright.
They did not wish to alarm the bishop’s staff unnecessarily, so they crossed the grounds to reach the north wing rather than go through the main part of the building. A light drizzle was falling from the sultry midday sky, but the misty rain was not enough to dampen their spirits as they entered the large door and proceeded slowly toward the wide staircase leading up to the second floor. A figure emerged onto the landing at the top of the steps, and d’Artagnan’s heart gave an excited stutter when he recognized Constance grinning down at him radiantly.
The two had continued to exchange letters during the course of Aramis’ slow recovery, and d’Artagnan felt that he was gradually starting to understand her better. In exchange, he had begun to uncover some of the damaged, shadowed parts of himself, exposing them to the light of day within his missives. For the first time in what felt like a very long time, he felt true hope for the future. The Queen and her musketeers had given his life meaning after the loss of his family and farm. With Constance he thought he might... just perhaps... find happiness as well.
“D’Artagnan!” Constance called delightedly, and hurried down the stairs with light footsteps. She came to a stop half a step in front of him and looked up at him, cheeks flushed. The others continued on to meet de Tréville, who was descending more slowly—giving d’Artagnan and Constance at least a pretense of privacy.
“Constance,” he said with heartfelt happiness. “I’ve missed you more than I can say.”
“I’ve been so scared for you,” Constance admitted. “And now, to see all of you back, safe and well... I could kiss you!”
“Then it would please me greatly if you would do so, Constance,” d’Artagnan said, meaning every word.
Constance bit her lip nervously. With a deep breath, she reached up to frame his face with her hands and direct him down so she could reach. D’Artagnan stayed utterly passive, though he was certain his eyes were expressing his feelings perfectly well without any assistance from the rest of him. He was fully expecting a kiss on the forehead or cheek, so a thrill coursed through his body when Constance’s lips touched the corner of his own, lingering for several seconds. Her eyes were bright when she released him and pulled away.
“All right?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said after a moment’s hesitation. D’Artagnan could see her chewing the inside of her cheek, her thoughts evidently turned inward, before her radiant smile suddenly reappeared. “Better than all right. You’re home!”
Unable to help himself, d’Artagnan gathered her hands in his and raised them to his lips, watching her carefully the whole time to make sure that it wasn’t too much. Her smile did not falter as he kissed her knuckles, and he felt his own lips turn up in an answering grin.
“Will you walk with me in the grounds, later this afternoon?” he asked, his chest feeling light and free.
“Happily,” she answered without hesitation. “Now, though, I want to say hello to Aramis and the others.”
“Of course,” he replied, and the two of them mounted the stairs to rejoin the others, who were engaged in a happy reunion with de Tréville and the Queen.
Aramis’ lack of stamina caught up with him fairly quickly, and the small party broke up to settle the sick man back in his own room and stow the belongings they’d brought with them. Constance excused herself to return to the baby, reiterating her promise to see d’Artagnan later.
In the mean time, while Aramis rested, de Tréville briefed the rest of them on the current situation in more detail than his daily notes had contained. While the situation within Chartres’ walls was not yet desperate, unrest was beginning to grow. No one was starving, but most of the livestock within the walls had already been butchered as supplies of animal feed dwindled, and the people were losing patience with the disruption to their lives and livelihoods. It would only be a matter of time until the focus of that resentment came to rest upon the Queen, and fighting within the city itself between citizens and soldiers loyal to Her Majesty would be devastating.
It was a sobering thought. Until now, d’Artagnan’s thoughts about the siege had largely been directed outward, focusing on Isabella’s troops. He hadn’t fully appreciated the potential threat from within, if conditions in the city got too bad.
Chartres was one of the few places in France, it seemed, that had made real progress in recovering from the plague. Rather than allow the city to languish, its leaders had pulled back to a smaller, more manageable area within the centuries-old walls and refurbished them to protect the city from danger. Within, one could find flourishing tradesmen, industry, and even new construction, something virtually unheard of in France these days.
It was deeply unsettling to contemplate the very real possibility that they would be responsible for plunging such a hopeful, forward-looking place back into chaos. Not for the first time, d’Artagnan found himself glad that he was only responsible for carrying out Her Majesty’s and de Tréville’s decisions... not making them.
His walk with Constance later that day was a welcome diversion, albeit one that came with its own set of worries. For some reason, it seemed easier to write of weighty personal matters than address them in person, and he was nervous that he would end up offending or hurting her with a clumsy word. Fortunately, Constance appeared to have enough bravery in that regard for both of them, and d’Artagnan was surprised by her forthrightness as they began to talk of the past and future.
She had taken his arm as they began to stroll among the greenery outside. While she did not attempt to meet his eyes as she began to speak, she didn’t hesitate with her words, either.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about my marriage lately,” she said. “I think that was where things began to go wrong for me. I was so very young when I married... young and naive. I had no older sisters to prepare me before my wedding, and my mother died when I was nine.”
“I’m sorry,” d’Artagnan said. “That must have been hard.”
“Jacques wasn’t a bad man. He could be thoughtless and impatient sometimes, but he wasn’t a bad husband,” she said.
D’Artagnan halted, feeling anger rise and trying to tamp it down. “He hurt you.”
Constance shrugged one shoulder, and tugged him forward by the arm to walk again. “I’m told it always hurts a woman at first. And it didn’t actually hurt, later on—not physically. I just hated it... even though I knew it was my duty as a wife. It used to make me feel sick to my stomach, lying there in the dark with his weight pinning me down, wanting to be anywhere else but in his bed, but knowing I didn’t have a choice in the matter.” This time she was the one who stopped and looked up into his eyes. “I care about you, d’Artagnan. In fact, I believe I’m falling in love with you. But I don’t ever want to find myself in your bed, looking up at you and feeling that kind of sick feeling. I—I don’t think I could do that again.”
D’Artagnan’s heart ached in response to the pain in Constance’s voice. Without thinking, he stepped in front of her and took her shoulders firmly in his hands, only to jerk them away and take a step back when he felt her stiffen under his hold. He took a deep breath, silently cursing himself for the mistake.
“Constance, I would never ask you do anything that would make you feel like that. I would rather go the rest of my life without touching you than see you undergo such a thing again.” He swallowed. “I might make mistakes... I will make mistakes, but I will always—always—listen to you when you tell me not to do something, and stop if I think that you don’t like what I’m doing.”
“I believe you,” Constance said, but her expression was sad. “I just worry that I’m not good enough for you. That I’m too broken. You must have been with lots of women who weren’t damaged, like I am. Why would you want someone like me?”
“Oh, Constance,” d’Artagnan said. “My broken pieces are every bit as jagged as yours, for all that they come from a different kind of hurt. And I haven’t been with so very many women... quite the opposite. But what I’ve experienced has shown me that physical love should be something given and received freely, out of caring and affection—a source of joy. Otherwise, I’ve no interest in it.”
Constance bit her lip, and met his gaze head-on. “I want to try,” she said, and d’Artagnan’s heart lifted.
“I do as well,” he said. “And I have a request. I don’t know how to help you, beyond trying not to make things worse. But I know someone who might.”
“Who?” Constance said.
“Milady,” d’Artagnan replied. “Would you consider talking to her?”
Constance looked skeptical. “D’Artagnan, I don’t think Milady actually likes me very much. I doubt she’d want to talk to me about something so personal.”
“It’s not that she doesn’t like you, Constance,” d’Artagnan said quickly. “Really—it isn’t. I think it’s more that you remind her of a part of her past that she would prefer not to dwell on. It’s up to you, of course, but please at least consider it.”
The skepticism turned to uncertainty, but then Constance nodded. “I’ll try talking to her if she’s willing.”
Relieved, d’Artagnan offered the crook of his arm and, when Constance took it, began walking again.
“We’re quite a pair, aren’t we?” Constance asked.
D’Artagnan huffed out a breath. “That we are. And I should probably warn you, Aramis and Porthos have been playing matchmaker for us since that very first evening at M. Rougeux’s house.”
That startled a laugh from Constance. “Truly? Well, they’ve always struck me as intelligent men. If they think we’re destined for each other, I shan’t argue the matter.”
“Nor I,” d’Artagnan said. “I wouldn’t dare.”
* * *
Three days later, d’Artagnan was on guard duty when de Tréville and d’Aumont demanded entrance to see the Queen, looking grim.
“The others will be here soon, d’Artagnan,” said de Tréville. “I’ve just sent for them. Leave the door open so you can hear without leaving your post.”
A few moments later, Athos, Milady, Porthos, and Aramis arrived; Athos was subtly supporting Aramis with a hand wrapped around his upper arm, but removed it as they entered the Queen’s suite. The Queen had seated herself at the head of the large table in the center of the room; d’Artagnan could see Constance standing in the doorway to Her Majesty’s bedchambers, the infant King in her arms.
”You have news,” said the Queen, not phrasing it as a question.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” d’Aumont replied. “Isabella’s troops are attacking the gates in force. They are taking heavy losses, but they have battering rams, and the city guard reports that the gates will not hold for much longer.”
