by R A Dodson
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, and 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 my 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 a query from Athos, 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.
“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.”
Taking her cue from the Queen’s words, 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, 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 sound 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 Isabella 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 c
harcoal 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 meantime, 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?”
D’Artagnan recalled the snippet of conversation he’d heard in d’Aumont’s tent, about all of the Mage Queen’s magic going to her son until he was weaned and her milk dried up—assuming she had, in fact, finally come into her power after the pregnancy and birth.
“Not as yet, Your Majesty,” Athos replied. “Unfortunately, La Croix-du-Perche is a small village, and while it was not as hard hit by the Curse 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 meantime, 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...” 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 believe I can provide a gentle mount for you,” d’Artagnan said, thinking of his father’s pony. “Let’s go saddle up.”
Chapter 40
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, his friends 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, 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 t
oward the house.
“You have good friends, here,” Constance said softly, once they’d left.
“I do.” D’Artagnan forced the words through a throat made 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.