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THE LOUVRE WAS every bit as impressive as Notre Dame in Chartres, but in a completely different way. The palace was a sprawling quadrangular construction longer and wider than any building he had ever seen. Chartres’ Palais Épiscopal would barely have covered the gardens at the center of the courtyard. Armored, muscular guards flanked the front entrance to the grounds at regular intervals. When they stopped to explain their errand to one of them, the fierce looking man glanced at them disinterestedly and sneered.
“What the hell do the likes of you think you’re doing at the front entrance?” he said. “Go round the back to the servants’ entrance by the river bank.”
The admonition was accompanied by a vague gesture toward the older part of the palace to the south. D’Artagnan swallowed his irritation and apologized for the mistake; the two of them turned back and skirted the grounds, following the road that paralleled the stinking waters of the Seine. The building was still deeply impressive from this vantage point, but one could also see places where it had been damaged, presumably during Gaston’s coup four years ago. The fact that it had not been repaired in all that time seemed telling.
Eventually, they reached the servants’ entrance, which consisted of a small stone gate with a guard post next to it. Again, they stated their business, and this time Constance handed over the letter from M de La Porte, inviting them to come to the palace and take jobs. The bored-looking guard read it over silently, mouthing some of the longer words, and handed it back with a shrug. He whistled, loud and sharp, and a few moments later a skinny pageboy with wide, blinking eyes ran up to them.
“Take these two in to see de La Porte, boy,” he said.
The boy nodded, and d’Artagnan and Constance made to follow him, but the guard slapped a hand down hard on d’Artagnan’s shoulder.
“Not so fast, you,” he said. “Spread your arms and legs. I gotta search you first.”
They had been warned to expect this, so d’Artagnan meekly complied, tamping down on his feelings of disgust as the guard groped at him, looking for hidden weapons. When he was satisfied, he gave d’Artagnan a careless shove that sent him stumbling forward a step.
“You, too, little missy,” the guard said, beckoning to Constance.
“Surely that’s not necessary,” d’Artagnan said, feeling his blood start to rise.
Constance shook her head and threw him a quelling glance. “It’s fine, Charles. We’ve nothing to hide, after all.”
She was pale, and her eyes grew glazed and far away when the guard leered and started to paw and squeeze at her through her clothing. D’Artagnan, meanwhile, flushed with anger, his fists clenching and unclenching with the desire to punch the man’s face until his teeth flew from his mouth like pearls from a broken necklace.
He breathed deeply against the pounding of his heart in his chest, repeating over and over to himself the importance of their mission here. He was trembling by the time the guard backed away with a final careless pat to Constance’s backside and grinned at d’Artagnan’s impotent rage.
“All clear,” he said with a broad wink, and waved them through. “I made sure to check everywhere.”
If Constance had not started walking away, following the pageboy like someone in a daze, d’Artagnan wouldn’t have had the strength to control his temper. As it was, he glared at the guard for one instant longer and hurried after her. When they rounded a corner into a colonnaded walkway out of sight of the guard post, he stopped her with a hand on her arm, cursing himself when she flinched.
“Constance,” he said. “Look at me.”
She looked at him... or rather, through him.
The pageboy shifted nervously from foot to foot, a few paces ahead. “Monsieur, Madame, I am supposed to take you inside. We should not tarry.”
“We’ll go in a moment,” d’Artagnan snapped, and Constance flinched again. He groaned softly, and said, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Constance. I need you to talk to me. Are you all right?”
A small shudder ran through her frame. She blinked, and focused on him properly. “Yes, I... yes. Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
He frowned, watching her with concern. “Because that animal of a guard just mauled you, and I could do nothing to stop him.”
She blinked again, and her gaze grew distant once more. “It doesn’t matter. We should go. My godfather will be expecting us.”
“It matters to me,” he said, but he didn’t attempt to stop her when she gave him a wan smile and turned to follow the pale, impatient boy. They were shown into a large wing of rooms painted in dazzling white, with flowered wallpaper decorating the lower half of the walls, and expensive-looking furniture and art strewn about at intervals along the main hallway. As they went on, the surroundings became noticeably plainer, until the page stopped in front of a simple wooden door.
The boy looked up at them. “What are your names?”
“Charles and Constance d’Artagnan,” he said, and the boy nodded.
The young page knocked on the door and opened it. “M. de La Porte,” he said self-importantly, “M. Charles d’Artagnan and Mme Constance d’Artagnan to see you.”
“Show them in, lad,” said a tired voice from within.
The pageboy ushered them inside and left them alone, closing the door behind him. A figure rose stiffly from a desk near the window and crossed to them. While surely no older than de Tréville—possibly a few years younger—M. de La Porte had the bearing of a very elderly man, gaunt and stoop-shouldered.
“Constance,” he said in a voice that was warm, but reedy and lacking strength. He held his hands out to his goddaughter and she clasped them tightly in her own. Her answering smile was genuine and affectionate.
“Godfather,” she said, “It’s so wonderful to see you. How are Georgine and the children?”
“Oh,” M. de La Porte said vaguely, “muddling along, my dear. Muddling along.”
Constance released his hands and turned to introduce d’Artagnan. He was relieved to see that she seemed more like her normal self again. “Godfather, this is my... husband... Charles d’Artagnan. Charles, my godfather, M. de La Porte.”
D’Artagnan nodded and shook hands with the man. His skin felt like cool parchment and his bones were fragile as a bird’s.
“Please, Charles,” said M. de La Porte. “Call me Adrien, at least when we’re in private.”
“Thank you, sir,” d’Artagnan said. “It’s an honor to meet you after hearing so much about you.”
“Believe me, I’m happy to be of help,” said the older man, meeting his eyes meaningfully. “The palace could use some new blood.”
It was the first hint from the old servant regarding his and Constance’s true mission here, but d’Artagnan did not fail to notice the careful wording.
“We’ll do our best,” was all he said in reply. From the hopeful expression and nod he got in return, it was enough.
Adrien turned to his goddaughter. “Constance, I was able to obtain you a position as a general maid. It will be hard work for little reward at first, but with luck, we’ll be able to advance you to the position of lady’s maid if a suitable lady comes to court.”
“That won’t be a problem,” Constance said, sending d’Artagnan a knowing glance.
“Charles,” the old man went on, “I’m afraid you’ll have to interview with M. Delacruz for a position as footman, but given how difficult it is to find servants at all these days, I’m confident that things will work out. I told him of your arrival today, so if you’re ready, we can go to see him now.”
“I’m ready,” d’Artagnan replied.
They dropped Constance off with a plump, red-cheeked woman named Edwige, who clucked over Constance like a biddy hen and hustled her away to show her around.
M. Delacruz was part of Isabella’s original retinue from Spain. Dark and sharp-featured, he had the air of a man who considered most of the people he met to be beneath his station.
“Married, you say, M. de La Porte?” he asked disdainfully. “Pah. Where I come from, no one would even consider hiring a married footman.”
“The position has been open for quite some time, M. Delacruz,” Adrien said. “Perhaps you might make an exception under the circumstances.”
“Hmm,” M. Delacruz said, sounding deeply unimpressed. He circled d’Artagnan, who tried to ignore the way the small hairs on his neck and back stood up as the other man passed behind him. “I suppose he’s still reasonably pleasing to the eye. You—boy.”
“Yes, sir?” d’Artagnan replied, deciding that even though he had been in Paris less than a day, he was already heartily tired of people calling him a boy.
“Remove your jerkin and unlace your shirt.”
D’Artagnan couldn’t help throwing a quick look of confusion toward Adrien, but the kindly old man merely shook his head with a tiny movement and directed his attention back to Delacruz. At a loss, he followed the instructions and folded his jerkin neatly, draping it across his forearm to stand before the other man with his shirt hanging open almost to the navel.
“Hmm,” the other man said again. D’Artagnan stiffened as Delacruz stepped into his personal space, running clammy hands over his chest and upper arms, squeezing and assessing as one might do to a horse or bull one was considering purchasing. It was shock more than manners that kept him still when those same cold fingers gripped his jaw, prying it open to examine his teeth before peering at his eyes and ears.
“Take off your boots,” Delacruz ordered, stepping back far only enough for d’Artagnan to comply.
Utterly bewildered by this point, but still acutely aware of the importance of his mission, d’Artagnan toed off first one boot, then the other. Delacruz pulled a chair over and set it in front of him.
“Put your foot on the chair.”
Feeling completely ridiculous and vaguely humiliated, d’Artagnan did so. Delacruz squeezed his calf muscle through the worn leather of his breeches, and made a little sound like, “Ah!”
D’Artagnan’s skin crawled as Delacruz ran fingers over his knee and thigh muscles, before finally stepping back and gesturing for him to put his clothing to rights.
“Very well, Adrien,” said the Spaniard. “You’ve convinced me. One doesn’t find such finely developed calf muscles very often these days. You may come back in the morning, boy. You will present yourself to M. Villenueve for your uniform, and then to myself for training. The wage is fifty livre per week, and you will have Sunday mornings off unless you are needed.”
“Thank you, sir,” d’Artagnan managed, trying not to choke on it.
Delacruz turned smartly and left without acknowledging him.
“Not quite what you’re used to, Charles?” Adrien asked quietly, but not without sympathy.
“It’s not a problem,” he said, but he couldn’t help wondering why gaining a position at court was such a sought-after achievement if it meant being treated like livestock.
“That’s good,” said the other man. “And before you ask—yes, things around here are like that all the time. Though I have high hopes that they will change for the better soon. Here, let me take you back to Constance. I’m sure you both have much to do before tomorrow morning.”
* * *
After he and Constance left the palace, they went to take Porthos’ advice about getting rooms nearby. Mme Janvier was a tiny, wizened woman who smelled of lye soap and fish. She directed them to the Rue Férou, where they were able to rent a little apartment for 25 livre per week. The area must once have been a desirable one—it was mere steps from an overgrown tangle of trees and grass that Constance called the Luxembourg Gardens. Now, though, it had faded into disrepute. Still, the rooms themselves were quite tolerable, or would be once they’d been swept and aired.
They were a little farther from the palace than d’Artagnan would have liked, but they did have the advantage of being close to Porthos’ storefront on Rue Mabillon. In fact, since their new employment would soon take up most of their available time, he and Constance decided to make their first public visit to Porthos once they had stowed their belongings in their new rooms.
The little boulangerie that Porthos had purchased from its former owner with the Queen’s coin had a wooden sign with a carving of a loaf of bread hanging over the door. The building itself was in relatively good condition, and as they entered, the smell of fresh baked goods overwhelmed the nauseating funk of the city outside.
“Greetings!” Porthos boomed from behind the long counter, which was piled with the day’s wares. “Now, I know I’m a new arrival myself, but I haven’t seen you two around before. What can I do for you?”
Behind Porthos, two sweating apprentices labored over large chunks of dough laid out on wooden tables covered in flour, and d’Artagnan knew that the play-acting was for their benefit.
“I’m Constance,” Constance said brightly, “and this is my husband, Charles. We’re to start work at the palace tomorrow, and we just took rooms on Rue Férou. I’d thought we might lay in a few supplies today, and we saw your sign as we were passing by.”
“Lovely! What’s your pleasure? The baguettes are fresh-made this morning, or I can give you a deal on these pastries from yesterday.”
Constance wandered over to peruse the boulangerie’s offerings, and d’Artagnan sidled closer to Porthos, dutifully playing the part of the bored husband. “So,” he said, “tell me. What does one do around here to pass the time? Can you recommend a good tavern nearby?”
“Well,” Porthos said, drawing out the word, “that all depends. If it’s excitement you’re after, you should join me sometime at the Leaping Bard on the Rue Guissarde. ‘Course, I suppose you might prefer something a bit quieter...”
His innocent expression was spoiled by a quick wink, and d’Artagnan laughed. “No, no, my friend—I’m all in favor of a bit of excitement to liven things up.”
“In that case,” Porthos said, “join me there whenever you wish. I can be found there most evenings, and God knows I could use a decent drinking companion. These two are barely old enough to grow chin whiskers, and besides, they’re sick of the sight of me by the end of the day.” He nodded over his shoulder to indicate the apprentices, both of whom quickly returned their attention to their work when d’Artagnan glanced at them.
“I might take you up on that tonight,” d’Artagnan said as Constance returned with a selection of bread tucked in her carrying basket.
She counted out a few coins from the dwindling supply the Queen had sent with them, and looked at Porthos sternly. “Now, don’t think I wasn’t listening in to the pair of you. I’ll thank you not to keep my husband out drinking until all hours when we both have to be at the palace first thing tomorrow.”
Porthos put a hand to his heart, eyes twinkling. “It’s the very farthest thing from my mind, madame. A good day to both of you, now—come again soon.”
D’Artagnan left in higher spirits for knowing that Porthos stood behind them, and they continued making the rounds of various stalls and merchants, gathering what they would need for the next few days. Constance seemed thoughtful as they walked. She smiled and reassured him when he enquired after her well-being, though, so he let her be.
It was only mid-afternoon when they returned to their rooms, laden with packages, food, and wine. They efficiently cleaned up the small space and stowed everything in the apartment’s rickety cupboards and dented chest. When they were done, Constance looked down at herself and wrinkled her nose.
“Do you think our new landlady might oblige us with a bath?” she asked. “I don’t like the idea of presenting myself at the palace tomorrow morning covered in grime.”
“I’ll ask,” d’Artagnan said.
After a bit of grumbling, the landlady sent a boy up with the washtub, and showed d’Artagnan the buckets to heat water. An hour later, the bath was ready and d’Artagnan closed and locked the door behind the boy after pressing a sous into his small, eager hand. Constance swirled her fingers through the lukewarm water.
“I want you to bathe me,” she said, sounding nervous. “And I’ll bathe you when I’m done.”
D’Artagnan felt excitement leap in his breast. “I would love to. Will you undress for me first, while I watch?”
Constance bit her lip and nodded. D’Artagnan sat on the bed, looking on avidly as Constance unlaced her corset and removed it. She fumbled slightly with the ties of her skirts, but soon the heavy material was pooling around her ankles, and she stepped out of them, leaving her clad in her shift. Finally, with a deep breath, she gathered the thin material of the underdress in both hands and pulled it off.
He had seen her breasts before and found them entrancing. Now, it appeared that the swelling associated with her milk production was finally starting to go down; he knew they had been tender and uncomfortable for days after she stopped nursing Henry. Eagerly, he let his gaze travel lower. Silver stretch marks framed her small navel, showing where her own lost infant had distended her belly, and d’Artagnan’s heart ached with tenderness for her. Her nest of curls was dark at the apex of her legs, and she flushed when she saw him looking. Her legs were long and muscular; her feet and ankles, dainty.
“You are a stunningly beautiful woman, Constance,” he told her. “I will never get enough of looking at you.”
Her blush grew deeper. “I’m nothing special, d’Artagnan. But I’m glad you don’t find me ugly.”
He shook his head, frustrated at her lack of confidence in herself. “I find you perfect.”
Constance climbed into the bath, her cheeks still ruddy with embarrassment. “Well, for now, I just need you to find me with that soap,” she joked awkwardly.
D’Artagnan removed his jerkin and crossed to the bath with the rag and sliver of soap the boy had brought them. He wet the cloth and scrubbed up a lather, kneeling to wash the dust and sweat from Constance’s shoulders. She leaned forward to give him access to her back, and he scrubbed over the pale skin with wide, firm strokes, pleased when she sighed and started to relax.
“Do you want to wash your hair?” he asked.
“Yes, please,” she said.
“You’ll have to show me how to take it down—I don’t know where the pins are,” he warned.
She nodded understanding and reached up, pulling the pins out one by one until the thick braid she was wearing today uncoiled and slipped over her shoulder. He picked up the end and carefully untangled the soft strands until everything fell loose. There was a pitcher on the table nearby; he filled it with water and directed her to lean her head back before letting it pour over the mass of curls, soaking them.
She took the soap and lathered it between her hands before giving it back to him so she could scrub at her scalp and rub the long strands back and forth between soapy palms. When she was finished, he poured several more pitchers of water over her to rinse it before taking up the rag again. After a faint hesitation, she leaned back against the rim of the copper tub to give him access to her front.
“Are your breasts still sore?” he asked as he washed her arms.
“A bit,” she said.
He moved the cloth very gently over the soft flesh, and she sighed in appreciation, her nipples pebbling as the rag passed over them. He dipped under the surface to pass over her stomach; then sat back. “Give me your foot.”
She lifted first one leg and then the other for him to wash, flinching a bit and smiling sheepishly when the rough cloth tickled her arches. When he made to straighten from the second leg, she met his eyes and whispered, “You haven’t finished yet.”
D’Artagnan’s cock stirred and began to fill, pressing against his breeches. “How remiss of me,” he murmured. He knelt again at the end of the tub and lifted her left leg, letting the ankle rest on his shoulder. He ran the cloth along her calf and over the hollow at the back of her knee before inching slowly up her inner thigh with little circling movements. His hand dipped under the water as he came closer to her center, and he watched her face intently to gauge her reaction. She lay back against the edge with her eyes closed, an intent frown wrinkling the skin between her eyebrows.
Constance jumped a bit when the cloth brushed her sex, but relaxed a moment later. Still watching her, d’Artagnan let his fingers trace her contours through the soapy rag. After a few moments of this, the last of the tension drained from her face and body.
“All right?” he asked.
She nodded against the rim of the tub, not opening her eyes. “Yes... just like that. That’s really nice.”
He continued the gentle movements, exploring her folds and trying to ignore his own growing need. After several minutes, she moved her legs restlessly. “I think... maybe... that’s enough for now,” she said in a hesitant voice, and he immediately removed his hand, running it up her leg to ease her ankle from his shoulder. “I’m so sorry, d’Artagnan, but I don’t think I can come like that while I’m in the tub.”
“Don’t apologize,” d’Artagnan said, tamping down any disappointment he might have felt. “As long as you enjoyed it, that’s the only thing that matters.”
“It felt good,” she said, “but let me get out now so you can bathe. I’m about to wrinkle up like a prune.”
She took the threadbare towel he offered her and rose, drying off her upper body and accepting his arm as she stepped out of the tub. “Go on, then,” she said as she rubbed down her feet and legs. “Why am I the only one who’s naked here?’
He didn’t need to be told twice, and she smirked at him when his erection sprang free as he shimmied out of his braies.
“I believe you enjoyed my bath as much as I did,” she said.
“I’m afraid you’re right,” he agreed, climbing into the slightly murky water.
Constance set the towel aside and padded over to him, her hair hanging in damp ringlets around her face. She picked up the rag and the soap, and began to scrub away at him with the efficient ease of one who had helped care for siblings as a youngster. D’Artagnan couldn’t help the little moan of bliss that escaped as the rough cloth scrubbed away layers of grime.
“Your hair needs washing, as well,” she said.
“Mmm,” he agreed, and let her tilt his head back and pour water over him. Her hands returned, slick with soap, fingernails scraping deliciously along his scalp as she scrubbed. She rinsed him off and washed his feet and legs as he had done for her. He groaned aloud when the cloth caressed lightly over his balls and up his shaft, toes curling at the wash of pleasure.
The cloth stilled, and he looked up at her through hazy eyes, nearly coming on the spot when she said, “I want you to take me now.”
It took a moment for his brain to reconnect with the rest of his body, but then he was clambering gracelessly from the tub, dripping water everywhere and nearly slipping in his haste. She handed him a towel and he made a hurried attempt to dry off while she crossed to the bed and arranged herself on it. By the time he’d joined her, he had come back to himself enough to take note of her pale complexion.
“Are you sure about this?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “I want to do this with you.”
He settled next to her, his heart beating like a rabbit’s, and leaned down to kiss her. She returned the kiss and let him deepen it, shivering as his hand slipped over her breast, caressing the nipple and continuing lower, until he could cup her sex. She was damp, but not sopping, which he put down to the bathwater having washed away her juices. At his touch, her legs fell open and his cock throbbed insistently, eager to find its home.
Pulling away from the kiss, he looked down at her. “Are you ready?”
She nodded, chewing on her lower lip nervously, and he eased himself into the cradle of her thighs. She looked up at him with wide eyes, and he gently nudged between her folds until he felt the place where her body accepted him. Pressing in slowly, he closed his eyes and held his breath against the heady grip of her passage; it felt like hot silk.
When he no longer felt that he was in danger of embarrassing himself, he started a slow, easy rhythm. For a few precious seconds, it was perfection, but then it all started to go wrong. Constance’s body went still and silent underneath him, and when he opened his eyes and looked down at her, her expression was growing distant and glazed—the same expression she had worn this morning when the guard at the palace pawed her, searching for weapons.
He froze, a jolt of nauseating worry making his stomach drop. “Constance?” he asked tentatively; then, stronger, “Constance. I need you to look at me. Are you with me?”
Beneath him, Constance blinked, and blinked again. Her eyes, which had been looking straight through him, seemed to come into focus. “D’Artagnan?” she asked in a small voice.
“Yes, it’s me,” he said. In his momentary relief, he let out a huff of breath that jostled her where their bodies were joined together, and she jerked as if stung by a wasp.
“Oh, God,” she said, and started to shiver beneath him. “Stop. I’m sorry, stop! Please... I’m so sorry!”
D’Artagnan’s heart skipped a beat, and his prick was already wilting as he disengaged and rolled off of her, stumbling a couple of steps away from the bed to put space between them. Tears overflowed Constance’s eyes, and she swallowed a sob.
“Constance,” he said, his own voice not completely even. “It’s all right. You’re safe. Everything’s all right.”
“It’s not all right!” she said in a high, quavering voice, and slammed her fist into the lumpy mattress. “I want this to be over! I don’t want to be this broken... thing, anymore!”
“You’re not broken, Constance!” he insisted. “We just went too fast, is all. And I—I should have seen that it wasn’t working. I should have stopped sooner.”
“No!” she said, still weeping. “You did exactly what I asked you to. You don’t get to take the blame for this. This is my failing, not yours.”
D’Artagnan swallowed, trying to be reasonable even though he felt utterly adrift. “You haven’t failed at anything. Think about how far you’ve come in such a short stretch of time.”
“It’s not enough!” she shouted. Constance covered her face with one hand, attempting to wrestle herself under control. When she spoke again, her voice was calmer, though still tremulous. “Look, d’Artagnan. I’m sorry for getting upset. It’s getting dark outside. You should go and meet Porthos as you promised. We both have to be at the palace early tomorrow. I’m fine now... you don’t need to worry.”
“I don’t want to leave you on your own like this,” he said stubbornly.
Her eyes were puffy, but focused when she met his gaze. “Please go. I really need to be by myself for a bit. All right?”
D’Artagnan took a deep breath. Let it out. Nodded.
“If that’s what you truly want,” he said, giving in.
“Thank you,” Constance breathed, her relief palpable.
D’Artagnan itched to ask for a kiss... an embrace... some physical sign that they would be all right together, but he knew it would be a mistake. They both began to dress on opposite sides of the room. When he was ready, d’Artagnan asked, “Shall I empty the tub before I leave?”
Constance shook her head. “No, I’ll get it. It will give me something to do.”
“Very well,” he said. “I love you, Constance. Never doubt that.”
Her smile was pale and wan, but her voice was steady when she replied, “I know, d’Artagnan. I do. I love you, too.”
With that reassurance, d’Artagnan took his reluctant leave and exited into the chaos and squalor of the Parisian evening, his small dagger tucked securely at his waist. Drunken revelers staggered by, and prostitutes called to him from the street corners, but his mind was firmly back in the little set of rooms on Rue Férou.
His preoccupation must have been obvious for all to see, for upon noticing his entrance into the seedy, dim interior of the Leaping Bard and hailing him to come sit at his table in the corner, Porthos immediately frowned in concern.
“That is not the face of a man enjoying wedded bliss,” Porthos said knowingly, pitching his voice to be heard over the general pandemonium of the tavern’s other patrons.
“It’s nothing,” d’Artagnan said.
Porthos’ answering grunt was skeptical, and he shoved a slopping tankard of ale in d’Artagnan’s direction. “If you say so. Get this inside you— it’ll cure whatever ails you.”
Unfortunately, it did not. Nor did the second tankard, or the third. The fourth, however, began to blunt the edge on the knife blade of d’Artagnan’s worry and distress, and over-layer it with a sense of warm camaraderie and fellow-feeling for his dear friend, Porthos.
“Porthos,” he said solemnly, slurring his words only a little, “I need your help with something.”
“I’m at your disposal,” Porthos replied, sounding somehow considerably less drunk than d’Artagnan himself was feeling.
“You’re an exshp... an exshperienced... “ He paused for a moment to regroup. “A man of the world.”
“I’ve seen a few things in my day. I s’pose you could say that,” Porthos said easily.
“Well, suppose there was this woman. An’ she was beautiful, and brave, and perfect... an’ you loved her, and she loved you.” He gestured with both hands, trying to outline the words and give them form. “But before she met you, someone hurt her. With sex. An’ now she wants to... with you... but when you try, she looks up at you and freezes, and she’s not seeing you—she's seeing him.”
Porthos looked terribly sad for a moment. “Oh, d’Artagnan,” he said, barely audible over the noise of the crowd, “the world is such a cruel place sometimes.” He took a deep breath, inflating his broad chest and letting the air out on a sigh. “All right. Let’s see. Does this hypothetical woman enjoy doing other things with her lover? Kissing? Touching?”
“Yes, mostly,” d’Artagnan said earnestly. “Sometimes, something will be too much and she needs space to feel safe again.”
“Are there specific things that remind her of being hurt?”
D’Artagnan thought back with a mind that felt slow as molasses. “No, I don’t... wait. Yes. She said she didn’t like being in his bed in the dark, trapped underneath him.” A horrible thought hit him like a club to the back of the head. “Oh, God, I was on top of her. I trapped her beneath me. Oh, God. Porthos, I’m an idiot.”
He let his heavy head fall forward to rest on his forearms, and felt Porthos pat his shoulder sympathetically.
“Every man’s an idiot sometimes when it comes to women,” Porthos said. “All right. So, you want my advice? Slow down; go back to something that you both enjoy. When you’re ready to try again, take lots of extra care with her first. Make sure she comes at least once before you move on to anything else, so she’s nice and relaxed. Then let her be on top, so she can control things.”
D’Artagnan lifted his head, trying to picture how that would work with ale-muddled wits. “On top. How—?”
Porthos shook his head in exasperation. “Just like riding a horse—you see?”
“Oh. Oh,” he said, as the picture suddenly clicked into place. He blinked slowly, and tilted his head in contemplation. It was a very appealing picture.
“Yeah, you got it now, I think,” Porthos said with a snort. “Right. I believe that’s quite enough for you tonight, my young friend. Lemme help you get home, or Constance’ll have my head. Where’d you say your rooms were again?”
The rest of the evening was a bit of a blur, and the following morning would no doubt have been far more awkward had he and Constance not been in a hurry to reach the palace, and had d’Artagnan not been more than a little distracted by the dull, pounding ache behind his temples.
“Remind me not to let Porthos buy the drinks next time,” he said as the sunlight stabbed at his eyes like a knife.
“Serves you right,” Constance told him, and his spirits were lifted considerably by the small, but cheeky, smile she flashed him.
They arrived at the palace, and his spirits were lifted even higher when she returned his brief kiss before disappearing into the warren of rooms and corridors to start her daily duties. D’Artagnan stopped a pageboy to enquire about M. Villenueve’s whereabouts, and eventually found him—a portly little man with a bald, shiny head—in a large room used for storage.
M. Villenueve tutted over him for several minutes, measuring various parts of his body with a cloth tape. He hurried out and returned a few minutes later with the most ridiculous clothing d’Artagnan had ever seen in his entire life. It was as if a peacock had tried to mate with a dolphin and together, they had birthed some sort of ridiculously shiny, lacy, powder blue monstrosity of an offspring. It was tight. He could barely bend over in the close-fitting knee breeches and hose, and the high-heeled shoes pinched his feet horribly. The light blue, lace-trimmed shirt stretched snugly across his shoulders, the opening exposing his chest with no way to lace it up. The jacket was stiff, unyielding brocade, embroidered with fanciful designs in silver thread, and...
“Here,” said M. Villenueve. “Let me tie back your hair so I can fit the wig.”
“The wig,” d’Artagnan echoed flatly, as the little man scraped and pulled his hair into a low ponytail.
It was a powdery white confection that seemed weigh several pounds and made his head itch almost immediately when it was fastened into place. Within moments, he hated it with every fiber of his being. M. Villenueve chivvied him across the room and stood him in front of a large looking glass, where d’Artagnan stared at himself in open dismay.
If any of the others ever saw him looking like this, he would never live it down.
Next came the training with M. Delacruz, which was every bit as odious as d’Artagnan had suspected it would be. The man treated him as if he was lower than a cockroach squashed on the sole of his pointy white shoe. He was instructed on how to stand, how to bow, how to open doors, how to pour drinks... surely it was only a matter of time before he was shown the proper method for wiping the aristocracy’s arses after they took a shit.
When Delacruz was finally finished criticizing d’Artagnan’s ability to perform such basic tasks as taking a visiting noble’s cloak and uncorking a bottle of wine, he sniffed in disgust and said, “I suppose that’s about all we can expect from such raw material. Be aware, boy, that you are only here because there is a shortage of servants and you are passably pretty to look at. One wrong move, and you’ll be out on the street, along with your painfully common little wife.”
At some point during the last two hours, d’Artagnan’s normally hot temper had transformed into something altogether colder and sharper. He smiled sweetly at the hateful man and said in a perfectly obliging tone, “Then I will have to do my very best not to make any wrong moves, monsieur, for I would not want to waste this wonderful opportunity.”
Delacruz glared at him for a moment as if sensing the simmering ill will behind the bland words, but finally sniffed and waved a hand in dismissal. “Go attend to the guests arriving in the east receiving room.”
“Yes, M. Delacruz. Thank you, M. Delacruz,” d’Artagnan said, bowing smartly as he had been taught and turning sharply on his heel to perform his assigned duties. He could feel the sneer directed at his back as sharply as he felt the tight breeches chafing at his thighs.
* * *
Being a footman was the most tedious job d’Artagnan had ever had to perform. After a week of standing by doors, staring into space, and feeling new blisters rise inside his uncomfortable, impractical shoes, he was seriously beginning to contemplate committing a spot of impromptu regicide all by himself, just to be done with the whole thing.
The only bright spots were Constance and Porthos. After a long, heartfelt discussion, Constance agreed to try not to be so hard on herself, and to focus, at least for now, on the things that brought her pleasure and joy. She and d’Artagnan cautiously resumed their physical relations, becoming more comfortable with each other and with communicating their feelings and limits.
Porthos remained a stalwart support, doling out baked goods, drink, and advice about their positions at court in roughly equal measure. Still, d’Artagnan could sense that the backstreets of Paris wore on the big man, and he vowed to be a better support to his friend in return.
To d’Artagnan’s frustration, there was really nothing of substance yet to divulge regarding the mission itself. He could report—and Constance confirmed—that the culture of the palace was one of creeping poison... the servants were bullied and often terrified; the guests crept around Isabella as one might tiptoe around a particularly dangerous and unpredictable snake. It was not clear to d’Artagnan if Isabella was actually insane, or merely trapped between the lure of near-absolute power and the pressures—both internal and external—currently surrounding France.
The few times that he had been around the woman, he found her to be a pale, unhappy figure prone to sudden tempers and vitriolic over-reaction to the most minor of perceived slights. It was this unpredictability, he thought, that trickled down through Isabella’s household, making life at the palace so tense. Those in Isabella’s favor were desperate to stay there, and those beneath her notice were desperate not to attract the wrong kind of attention.
It was a relief when, on the sixth day after their arrival, Constance met him at the servant’s entrance in the evening with a smile on her face.
“I have news,” she said. “I’m to be the maid of a visiting lady, starting tomorrow.”
D’Artagnan’s spirits rose immediately. “Oh, yes?” he asked, very aware of the bored-looking guard at the gate. “Anyone I would have heard of?”
“I doubt it,” Constance replied airily. “Some obscure noblewoman, apparently. A widow, so I hear.”
D’Artagnan barely managed to contain a snort. “Oh, is that so? How tragic.”
Constance winked at him, and he smiled back as they left the palace grounds and headed for their little rooms on Rue Férou.
Once they were safely locked away from prying eyes and listening ears, he turned to her eagerly. “So, have you seen her? Spoken with her?”
Constance shook her head. “Not yet. The Cardinal is presenting her at court tomorrow, apparently. Once she’s installed in rooms at the palace, I’ll be able to talk with her.”
“What a relief,” d’Artagnan said. “Maybe now, things will finally start to move forward.”
