by R A Dodson
“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, it turned out, had been 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 ‘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 freshly 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 af
ter her wellbeing, 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.
It took some convincing, but their landlady eventually acceded, providing a tub and several buckets of lukewarm water. After they had taken turns bathing, d’Artagnan took his leave and exited into the chaos and squalor of the Parisian evening to meet Porthos, 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 elsewhere.
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 patted his shoulder companionably.
“So, my young friend, how is wedded bliss treating you?” Porthos asked, pitching his voice to be heard over the general pandemonium of the tavern’s other patrons.
“It’s... good,” d’Artagnan said.
Porthos gave an answering grunt, and shoved a slopping tankard of ale in d’Artagnan’s direction. “Glad to hear it. Get this inside you—you look far too sober as it is.”
Apparently, he was still too sober for Porthos’ taste after the fist tankard, and the second. And the third. By the time he was making inroads on the fourth, however, it had begun to blunt the edge on the knife blade of d’Artagnan’s worry about the future, 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 says she wants to... with you... but you’re worried that if you try, she won’t be seeing you. She'll be 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.”
“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.”
He let his heavy head fall forward to rest on his forearms, and felt Porthos pat his shoulder sympathetically.
“All right,” Porthos said. “So, you want my advice? Take it slow. And when the time comes and it feels right, 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—?”
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?”
Chapter 58
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 an otter 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 to 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 sha
rply 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 been forced 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.
Constance was a source of untempered joy to him, despite his worries about their future. 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. According to the gossip, she still nursed her two-year-old son Francis at the breast, presumably to avoid questions about the strength of her magic, and her ongoing inability to counter Spain’s Curse.
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.