by R A Dodson
Grabbing the reins, he led the pony out of the stall. Before he had gone five steps, he glanced up and jerked to a stop as if he had walked into a solid wall. At the end of the aisle stood Grimaud’s mare, saddled and ready, with her head nestled comfortably against Constance’s torso, eyes closed in bliss as the young woman stroked her cheek, scratching softly under the straps of the bridle.
“What—?” he said, evidently intending to dazzle her with his brilliance.
Constance looked up at him, from where she had been crooning softly to the mare. “Such a sweet animal,” she said. “She’s lovely. Is she yours?”
As it happened, after Grimaud’s death Athos had, at one point, turned to him on the road and said, “If you want the mare, then take her. She’s yours,” when d’Artagnan asked what he planned to do with his former servant’s mount. D’Artagnan hadn’t answered Athos properly, preoccupied as he was by their dire circumstances at the time.
“I suppose she is,” he replied. “But. No. Wait. You don’t understand. She hates everyone.”
The horse opened one eye and blinked at him, her head still tucked securely in the cradle of Constance’s arms. Constance looked at him askance. “Evidently not,” she said. “Perhaps she only mislikes some people. Maybe she was ill-used, and distrusts those who remind her of her tormenter.”
“Perhaps so. I’ve really no idea,” d’Artagnan said, regaining himself a bit. “Whatever the case, she is something of a challenge to ride. I had thought you might ride my father’s gelding, who is gentle and calm and has recently been the mount of the Queen herself.”
“Oh, no!” Constance said quickly. “I shouldn’t like to usurp Her Majesty’s preferred mount. I’ll take the mare. I’m sure she’ll be fine.”
D’Artagnan watched with some trepidation as Constance led Grimaud’s mare outside and positioned herself with one bent knee for him to help her into the saddle. Once d’Artagnan lifted her into place, the little horse stood calm and docile as a pup, keeping one eye and one ear fastened attentively on her rider while Constance arranged her skirts and placed her feet in the stirrups.
Shaking his head in amazement, d’Artagnan mounted his pony and the two headed back toward the camp at a leisurely pace.
“Tell me a little more about yourself,” Constance said as they rode side-by-side. “It seems as though I’ve gone on and on about my own past, but I know next to nothing of yours.”
“There’s not much to tell,” d’Artagnan said, growing tense at the thought of discussing his past. “The Curse hit Gascony hard, and I decided to come north to seek other opportunities. I came upon Her Majesty’s entourage quite by chance, and they were kind enough to make a place for me.”
“You’ve lost people, haven’t you,” Constance said after a moment, not posing it as a question.
The tension in his chest ratcheted higher. “Yes,” he said in a tone that did not invite further comment, and was relieved when Constance didn’t pursue it.
“The Queen and those around her seem to be extraordinary individuals,” she said instead. “I still can’t believe they’re interested in someone like me.”
“I can,” d’Artagnan said simply, relaxing again.
When they arrived at the tent Constance was sharing with two other women, d’Artagnan helped her down from her horse, and she looked up at him, her eyes bright with reflected firelight from the cooking fires scattered around the camp. Her waist was warm under his hands where he steadied her, and her lower lip caught between her teeth.
“Thank you for coming with me tonight,” he said, his voice sounding slightly hoarse.
“D’Artagnan, you defended me from that man who tried to drag me away from poor Pascal this morning, and then you took me to meet the Mage Queen. I’m fairly certain I’m the one who should be thanking you.”
She licked her lips, and suddenly d’Artagnan could not look away. Moving slowly, he closed the gap between them, feeling more than hearing her faint intake of breath in the instant before their lips touched. Emboldened when she did not pull away, d’Artagnan deepened the kiss, tasting the faint tang from the blackberry brandy she had imbibed earlier. After a few seconds, though, he stilled. Constance was standing stiff and braced, as if frozen in place. Her unmoving lips did not respond to his. He stepped backward quickly, removing his hands from her hips, and her eyes flew open.
“What are you doing?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”
“Forgive me,” d’Artagnan said, mortified. “I misread the situation. I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“Offend me?” Constance said. “D’Artagnan...”
D’Artagnan shook his head, picking up the mare’s reins and backing away until he could mount his gelding. “I’m sorry, Constance, it won’t happen again,” he said, looking down at her from the saddle. “I hope we can still be friends. Thank you for a pleasant evening.”
With that, he whirled and rode off, eager to leave the scene of his embarrassment. How could he have misunderstood the signals so badly? Constance was recently widowed; she’d lost a baby two weeks ago, for God’s sake. Why on earth would she be interested in someone like him?
THE NIGHT PASSED RESTLESSLY. For the first time since de Tréville had forbidden him to use the cat o’ nine tails, d’Artagnan found his back itching and tingling as he thought about his humiliating misstep with the young widow. His sleep, what there was of it, was punctuated by odd and disturbing dreams. Eventually he gave up and rose in the darkness, dressing himself by feel to avoid disturbing Porthos, who snored next to him in the borrowed room.
He thought to find privacy and comfort in the stables, currying his pony or doing some other odd job to quiet his mind, but when he arrived he was surprised to find lanterns lit and cheerful whistling coming from within. Inside, Aramis was seated on an upturned barrel, oiling leather straps with a greasy rag. He looked up sharply at the sound of d’Artagnan’s approach, but relaxed when he saw who it was.
“Well, well,” he said. “Once more we meet in an empty stable when most other reasonable people are abed.”
“Is sleep eluding you as well?” d’Artagnan asked, well aware of Aramis’ insomniac tendencies.
“Sleep generally eludes me,” Aramis replied, “or leads me on a merry chase before conceding defeat, at the very least. What of you, though? I’d have thought you’d be enjoying sweet dreams of the lovely Constance this evening.”
“I may possibly have done something quite stupid,” d’Artagnan said miserably. He shook his head in reply to Aramis’ questioning noise, grabbing a second rag and a bridle from the pile the other man was working on before sliding down the wall across from him and rubbing fitfully at the dry leather. To his relief, Aramis let him be, and they worked silently for a few minutes before the peace was shattered by the sound of piteous mewling.
A small, gray kitten stuck its nose out from behind a pile of hay, and slunk into view along the wall until it was close enough to leap onto the barrel, and then, to Aramis’ shoulder. From this new perch, it observed d’Artagnan with a baleful gaze, even as the rumble of contented purring filled the space between them.
“Ah. Back again, I see,” Aramis said, making no attempt to dislodge the little beast.
“New friend of yours?” d’Artagnan asked, eager for any distraction from his thoughts.
“She seems to have decided that my shoulder offers a better view of the barn than her usual haunts,” Aramis said. “Really, d’Artagnan—I'm shocked. Has no one mentioned to you before that females find me irresistible? I shall need to have words with the others; what an unconscionable oversight on their part.”
D’Artagnan’s eyes fell back to the straps in his lap. “Unfortunately, I cannot say the same of myself after last night,” he said, deciding that a bit of commiseration from a sympathetic listener was worth the embarrassment of relating his faux pas.
Aramis’ keen gaze was on him in an instant. “If you are referring to Constance,” said the other man, “I am fairly certain you’re
mistaken in your assessment. What in heaven’s name happened between the two of you after you left us, to leave you so downtrodden?”
“I kissed her,” d’Artagnan said miserably. “But she was offended, and did not want me, so I apologized and left.”
“Considering the way she was looking at you earlier in the evening, I find that to be... surprising, to say the least. Did she push you away? Tell you to go?”
“Not exactly,” replied d’Artagnan. “She froze, and did not respond at all to my advances. It was obvious she wanted me to stop. So I did.”
“As you should have, certainly,” Aramis allowed. “Still, did she say nothing to you about it afterward?”
“Not really, no. Though it... may be because I didn’t really give her a chance to do so. I left fairly hastily in the aftermath.”
“Ah, callow youth,” Aramis murmured under his breath, ignoring the kitten as it batted playfully at a lock of his hair. He continued at a more normal volume. “D’Artagnan, it seems obvious, having seen the two of you together, that she is attracted to you. I don’t know why she reacted the way she did. Perhaps you moved too fast with your advances, or caught her by surprise in the moment. The only way to find out is to ask her and listen to whatever she has to say. Don’t give up on things without finding out the truth of it first. All right?”
D’Artagnan thought through his friend’s words, realizing that he had, indeed, allowed his own discomfort to take precedence over finding out what the problem truly was.
“I will,” he said after a moment. “Thank you, Aramis.”
“Think nothing of it,” Aramis said magnanimously. His careless shrug dislodged the little cat clinging to his shoulder, and she leapt to the ground with a startled hiss. Aramis flinched and reached up to tug his collar to the side, revealing a faint, red claw mark where neck met shoulder. He huffed a laugh at himself, and added, “I should also mention that females can occasionally be fickle creatures.”
THE FOLLOWING DAY, when Constance came to the house to talk with Milady about the position of wet nurse, d’Artagnan contrived to speak to her privately for a few moments. He apologized again for kissing her, and asked how he had offended her. She would only reply that he had not offended her in the least, and seemed puzzled at his insistence on the subject, which in turn left him confused.
In the days that followed, Constance continued to seek out his company. She began spending most of her time at M. Rougeux’s chateau, helping with the baby and additionally acting as a lady’s maid for the Queen—a position that obviously delighted her. D’Artagnan found her presence as alluring as he had the first day he’d met her, but he was also increasingly frustrated by the way she seemed to solicit his advances, while simultaneously reacting to his touch with something suspiciously close to revulsion. With no idea how to address the problem, d’Artagnan resolved to be a friend to her, and nothing more.
That did not, however, stop him waking at night from dreams of her that left him shamefully heated and wanting.
Ten days after the decision to move the troops to Chartres, the Queen decreed that her son was strong enough to make the journey. A messenger was sent ahead, bearing a letter with both the royal seal and the seal of Antoine d’Aumont de Rochebaron, to warn the city officials of their arrival three days hence. Belongings were packed in preparation for an early start the next morning. The troops celebrated and caroused long into the night.
The morning of July twenty-third dawned clear and bright. D’Artagnan, riding a horse borrowed from one of the townsfolk, made his way through the remains of the camp, overseeing the final loading of the wagons and carts. Detritus littered the trampled dirt and grass of the village green, but the caravan was finally ready to move out in the wake of the lines of foot soldiers arrayed behind d’Aumont and his lieutenants. They awaited only the Queen’s retinue.
The sound of horses approaching from west of the church heralded Her Majesty’s arrival, and d’Artagnan rode forward to meet them as they came into view around the walls of the chapel. He had some idea of what to expect, but that didn’t stop him from catching his breath at the sight greeting him.
No fragile flower enclosed in a gilded carriage, the Queen led her procession riding astride and wearing the bespoke armor that d’Artagnan had earlier mistaken for that of a youth. The camp’s blacksmith had outdone himself. The cuirass shone in the dawn light. Her Majesty’s crown rested on the sparkling chain mail coif that draped over her head and neck. Spaulders and vambraces protected her shoulders and arms. The glint of a spur peeked out from voluminous skirts that perfectly matched the color of the aged yellow gelding she rode.
D’Artagnan blinked, and blinked again. The old pony he had ridden since childhood strode forward with an arched neck and a bearing regal enough to match that of its rider, almost as if the beast could sense the honor that it had received. A gleaming metal champron covered the gelding’s face from ears to muzzle, matching the style of the Queen’s armor exactly. In the rays of early morning sunlight, the horse’s shiny coat was not the color of a buttercup—it was the color of beaten gold.
Behind the Queen, Constance—riding the broom-tailed mare and bearing the infant King in a sling close to her breast—rode side by side with Milady. Porthos, Athos, Aramis, and de Tréville were arrayed around them protectively. A gap on the Queen’s left caught d’Artagnan’s attention, and suddenly, ridiculously, he found his eyes burning with unshed tears.
That was the place they had made for him.
Chapter 41
The column of soldiers and royalty marched steadily northeast as the day progressed. After much discussion, it was agreed that they would travel north of Illiers-Combray in case enemy troops were still using the town as a base. While Porthos had argued vigorously that they should sweep through the area and root out any remaining enemy soldiers as they went, de Tréville pointed out that if even a single rider escaped to report to Isabella that they were on the move toward Chartres, it would speed the inevitable military response against them. The Queen agreed.
This suited d’Artagnan quite well, as Illiers-Combray was a place he never wanted to see again after having been captured there with Athos—forced to listen helplessly as the other man was tortured. Unfortunately, the alternate northern route did require them to travel through Chassant—a place Aramis had once described as “a village of ghosts”—along with several other small towns hit hard by the Curse.
Whether Chassant had truly surrendered its last souls to abandonment and death, or whether those that still lived were frightened into hiding by the show of military might marching through their town, they saw no one as they passed. Still, a faint stench of decay hung in a pall over the area, and many of the soldiers tied kerchiefs over their faces out of fear that the miasma of dark magic might sicken them as it had sickened the townsfolk.
Progress was slow, limited by the pace of the men on foot. De Tréville had insisted that they make for the small town of Bailleau-le-Pin as their stopping point on the first day, covering slightly more than eight of the fourteen leagues that separated La Croix-du-Perche from Chartres. In this way, they would arrive at their final destination the following day with some daylight left, and hopefully be able to speak with the city’s elders, gaining shelter within Chartres before nightfall.
It was quite a reasonable distance to cover for a rider, and not out of the question for someone on foot, but the sheer size of the retinue seemed to slow the pace to a near-crawl. D’Artagnan found himself surprised by Her Majesty’s fortitude and endurance while riding in heavy armor so soon after giving birth. However, he soon realized that she must have been riding and camping rough with de Tréville for weeks after the attack on the castle at Blois, trying to stay one step ahead of the assassins who would have seen her dead.
Today, it was Constance who was struggling. By her own admission, she seldom rode, for all that she seemed to have a magic touch with Grimaud’s cantankerous mare. Now, not only was she riding all day, b
ut she had the small, warm weight of Her Majesty’s son hanging across her chest and shoulder in his sling. D’Artagnan kept close to her, splitting his attention between watching her surreptitiously and scanning their surroundings for danger.
“Are you all right?” he asked quietly when the troops stopped for a brief midday meal on a lonely stretch of road.
“I’ll manage,” Constance said gamely. “Here, take the baby so I can get down for a few minutes and stretch my legs.”
Before d’Artagnan could defer, Constance carefully handed the young King down to him, and he found himself with an armful of wriggling infant. The sweet, milky smell of the baby unlocked long-forgotten memories of holding his little sister when he was only a boy himself, and he instinctively moved to cradle the small form, supporting his head. One tiny arm that had freed itself from the swaddling waved around for moment before catching in his hair and tugging fitfully.
Clambering down stiffly from the saddle, Constance paused, looking at him. “Holding an infant is a good look for you, d’Artagnan,” she said. “I think I like it.”
Once again, d’Artagnan was thrown by her words. At that instant, though, the baby whimpered and began to cry. “I’m afraid it’s you he wants right now,” he said, relinquishing the hungry child back into his nurse’s arms and trying not to catch his breath as their hands brushed.
The moment was interrupted by the Queen’s approach, and they stepped apart.
“How is he, Constance?” asked Her Majesty.
“He wants feeding right now,” Constance said over the baby’s squalling, “but he’s been a joy to ride with, Your Majesty. I think he likes the motion of the horse.”
The Queen smiled. “I am not surprised. He comes from a long line of fine horsemen. His father was trained in equitation by de Pluvinel himself, after all. Come, Constance. There is shade by the side of the road, and I can see that you’re tired. Milady is procuring refreshment for us.”