“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 and 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 sensible 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 her 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 charcoal 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 mean time, 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?”
“Not as yet, Your Majesty. Unfortunately, La Croix-du-Perche is a small village, and while it was not as hard hit by the plague 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 mean time, 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... well... ” 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 think I can provide a gentle mount for you,” d’Artagnan said, thinking of his father’s pony
. “Let’s go saddle up.”
* * *
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, the pair 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 with his sword in his teeth, 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 toward the house.
“You have good friends, here,” Constance said softly, once they’d left.
“I do,” d’Artagnan forced through a throat 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.
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, brilliantly.
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 while Constance arranged her skirts and placed her feet in the stirrups, keeping one eye and one ear fastened attentively on her rider.
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, feeling himself tense up at the thought of discussing his past. “The plague 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 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 him, 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. 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.
Book 3: The Queen's Musketeers, #3 Page 5