“Oh, thank you, d’Artagnan!” she said. “I will look forward to your return. 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, now fully dressed and 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?”
“I was, and 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. Since 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?” 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 didn’t mean to 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 III: July 12th, 1631
D’ARTAGNAN WAS ALMOST to 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 he announced himself during a lull in the conversation inside.
“Come in, d’Artagnan,” 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 up on 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 wanted 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 valu
able 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?”
“It is 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 mean time, 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 I’m proud to know. I once 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 entryway 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 will 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 me to her.”
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, so 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 a 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 Athos’ query, 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 and excitement.
“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.”
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.”
Book 3: The Queen's Musketeers, #3 Page 4
