by R A Dodson
“Did you know him?” d’Artagnan asked.
She shook her head. “No, I didn’t. I hardly know anyone here. Only a few of the other women. I wanted to get away from my brothers, can you believe—I moved from Paris to live with them in Chartres after my husband died.” She gave a fragile little laugh. “I thought supporting Queen Anne would be some sort of grand adventure... but this isn’t quite what I’d pictured in my imagination.”
“If everyone had a true picture in their minds of what a battle entails, I think there would be far fewer battles and wars,” d’Artagnan said, looking around at the carnage. Remembering himself, he took the charred stick and sheet of leather from his bag, and made another mark along the top. “I am making a circuit of the camp to tally the casualties for M. de Tréville. Perhaps we could walk together for a few minutes, madame?”
Mme Bonacieux nodded, her face still wan. “I’d like that, monsieur. But, please—you must call me Constance. This is far too grim a place for such formalities.”
“As you wish, Constance. My given name is Charles, but, honestly, everyone just calls me d'Artagnan. ‘Charles’ always makes me feel like I'm still wearing short pants for some reason.” And like I'm hearing it in my father's voice, or my mother's, he didn't add. “I need to continue along the western side of the camp, and then return to the chapel. The less seriously wounded are being taken there, and that’s where the bandages and other medical supplies will be delivered.”
“I’ll go with you, in that case. I can try to help with the injured who are arriving there,” Constance said, and even in such terrible circumstances, d’Artagnan could not help the small sliver of pleasure that crawled through him upon hearing he would not lose her company immediately.
The attackers had entered the camp from the east, and were turned away well before they reached the western edge. Therefore, they came upon no more dead or dying men as they walked, only a couple of wounded soldiers hobbling toward the church for treatment with the help of their comrades.
“I've told you something of my background and how I came to be here,” Constance said as they headed up the slope toward the churchyard, “yet I know nothing of you, beyond the fact that you report to a man named de Tréville. Who is he, pray tell?”
“M. de Tréville is the captain of the Queen’s private guard,” d’Artagnan said, not above bragging a little to impress the beautiful woman walking next to him. “He commissioned me into service two months ago, and since then I have been helping to protect Her Majesty from her enemies, who seem to be both numerous and determined.”
Constance’s eyes lit up with excitement, and she placed a hand on d’Artagnan’s upper arm to stop him. “You’ve seen the Queen in person?” she asked, obviously enthralled. “Even spoken with her?”
“I visited with Her Majesty and paid my respects to the infant King only last evening,” he replied, feeling his chest puff out a bit with pride.
“That’s amazing, d’Artagnan!” Constance said. “Please, you must tell me what she’s like. My godfather was at court and used to tell stories of life at the palace when I was small. Is she as beautiful as he said?”
“She has an ineffable air of radiance about her, like that of an angel. Even more so, now that she is also a mother,” d’Artagnan replied, not adding though at this moment she pales in my eyes before your own compassion and beauty.
“I’ve never met royalty,” Constance said wistfully. “M. de La Porte—that’s my godfather—had planned to sponsor me at court when I was younger. Then... well, the King’s brother deposed him, and my godfather barely managed to maintain his own position as a gentleman-in-waiting to Isabella of Savoy. But I’ve always admired Queen Anne. When the opportunity came to do something concrete to help her, I leapt at it.”
“You should dine with me tonight, at the chateau where the Queen is staying,” d’Artagnan said quickly, without thought. “I’m sure Her Majesty would be willing to meet with such an ardent supporter as yourself.”
His companion’s eyes grew wide as dinner plates. “Do you truly think so?” she asked.
“Oh, yes, I’m certain of it,” d’Artagnan said, hoping fervently that the Queen—and de Tréville, for that matter—would see things the same way. “I must take my leave of you soon to complete my duties, but meet me again in front of the church before vespers, and I will escort you there.”
The smile that split Constance’s face made her seem suddenly years younger—carefree and light despite the mud and blood smeared over her skirts and bodice. D’Artagnan caught his breath, unable to help himself.
“Oh, thank you, d’Artagnan!” she said. “I will look forward to your return.” She laughed—a dazed sound. “Who would have thought that a lowly haberdasher’s widow would find herself dining with the Queen?”
For a moment, d’Artagnan felt that Constance would step forward and kiss him, but she visibly controlled herself and placed a hand over his forearm instead before taking her leave of him. D’Artagnan had to shake his head to recall his surroundings and responsibilities, and felt a twinge of guilt at the thought of his duties to the wounded. Still, it had only been a moment’s interlude, and they had, as planned, arrived back at the chapel.
He entered the large structure, pleased to see that the men he had directed to come here were, in fact, trickling in to have their injuries treated and bandaged. He saw Aramis in one corner, leaning over one of the wounded men. As he approached, he realized that it was the sandy-haired soldier Aramis had befriended on the evening before the battle. The olive-skinned woman knelt on the other side of the rough palliasse, daubing at a jagged cut on the man’s arm with a damp rag. D’Artagnan was pleased to see that the man seemed to be awake and calm; with luck, that meant that his injuries were not severe.
“Aramis?” d’Artagnan said as he approached.
Aramis looked up from where he was tying off a bandage around a wound on the man’s right hand, and smiled. “Hello, d’Artagnan. I’ll be with you in just a moment, as soon as I finish with Jules and Amedea, here.”
D’Artagnan nodded. “Of course.” He sketched a shallow bow and backed away a few steps to wait. Aramis spoke in a low voice to the woman—Amedea—as he moved to her side and began wrapping the ugly slash on Jules’ bicep. When he was finished, he addressed both of them, and from the occasional word that drifted to his ears, d’Artagnan gathered he was instructing them on the care of Jules’ wounds. Amedea nodded understanding and gave Aramis a slightly tremulous smile that did not reach her eyes as he brought her hand to his lips for a gallant kiss. Turning his attention to the wounded man, Aramis placed a hand on the side of his face, brushing the backs of his knuckles down his cheek with unexpected tenderness. Jules raised his un-bandaged hand to rest on Aramis’ upper arm for a moment, before the chevalier turned and left the couple to join d’Artagnan.
“So, my young friend,” he said, “I assume you were able to make your report to our esteemed Captain. How fares the old war horse?”
“He is well,” d’Artagnan said. “He set me to making a tally of the casualties, which I have done. He told me he would be meeting with d’Aumont and Patenaude at d’Aumont’s tent, and I must go there next to report the figures to him.”
“I see,” Aramis replied. “Well, for my part, I’m pleased to report that all is well at the chateau. And except for one small fire, which is under control, the rest of the village escaped unharmed. If you're due to make a report to de Tréville, I don’t want to detain you—”
“There is another matter of a more... personal nature,” d’Artagnan interrupted in a rush.
Aramis’ brows furrowed. “Is there indeed?” he asked.
“While I was making my rounds, I met a very beautiful young widow from the camp followers who was comforting a dying soldier. And I may... have... invited her to M. Rougeux’s chateau to dine with the Queen tonight.”
Aramis stared at him for a few seconds, and let out a single, startled bark of laughter.
“Oh, dear,” he said. “Forgive me, d’Artagnan, I shouldn’t laugh. That was a very—shall we say—bold opening move for you to make. Though I’m not certain how I can help you with it; you’ll have to take the matter up with the Captain when you see him.”
“But how will I convince him? He’s already angry with me for getting separated during the battle,” d’Artagnan said, envisioning his inevitable humiliation in Constance’s eyes.
“I suspect any words he had with you about that were more due to worry than anger. And I, for one, have cause to be thankful that you were separated from the others,” Aramis said. “So—what qualities does your young widow have to recommend her?”
“She is fearless and compassionate,” d’Artagnan said immediately. “She comforted frightened, dying men and never lost her composure. Mostly, though, she was just so excited to learn that I was part of the Queen’s retinue. Apparently her godfather has been a gentleman-in-waiting at court for most of her life, and told her stories about it when she was a girl. He was going to sponsor her, but then King Louis was deposed and he was lucky to keep his own position there, much less gain a position for someone else.”
Aramis’ eyes lit up at the last statement. “Ah, indeed! Well, I believe you may have answered your own question, d’Artagnan.”
“Have I?” d’Artagnan asked, thrown.
“You have,” Aramis confirmed with a twinkle of amusement, “but I think I will leave you to ponder the matter further on your way back to report to de Tréville. As for me, I should get back to the wounded. Perhaps I will see you and your new acquaintance at dinner.”
With that, he turned and was gone before d’Artagnan could form a coherent response.
Chapter 39
D’Artagnan had almost reached 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 voices carried from within.
“Has she come into her powers, though?” D’Artagnan recognized the voice of Patenaude. “That will be vital to our cause in the coming weeks.”
De Tréville cleared his throat. “Until the babe is weaned, there is no way to know. All of her Majesty’s magic will be funneling to him, with none left over for anything else.”
“Or else she has no magic, and all the claims that the Mage Queen will deliver France from the Curse are mere wishful thinking,” said a voice he didn’t recognize.
De Tréville’s tone was steel. “She is still the rightful queen, and her son, the rightful king.”
There was a bit of low muttering in response to that, and D’Artagnan announced himself during the lull in the conversation.
“Come in,” 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 against 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 tried 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?”
“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 meantime, 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 whom I’m proud to know. I onc
e 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 entrance 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 would 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 us?