Dear all, welcome to the first chapter of a new story but let me reassure you that the last chapter of 'Retribution' will be up in the next few days; it's been a manic five weeks at work and it's good to have the chance to be writing again. Even this chapter is a month old!
I was never going to write anything to do with Season 3 for lots of reasons but this is set three years after that and, out of necessity, refers to events during that time, not least because much-loved major characters are missing! Tréville, for one, has been such an integral player in my other stories that I am bereft and finding it hard to write this without him. My thoughts keep straying to 'Now what would Tréville have done or said in this instance?' I give you advanced warning at this point that the opening chapter also speaks of the passing of another old favourite.
Time has moved on and those we know, love and who have survived are all a little older. My timeline is as follows: s1 opened in 1630 and took about a year = 1631. The gap between series 1 and 2 was several months and, given that the Dauphin is still a baby at the end of s2, I take that as being 1632. 4 years elapsed between s2 and s3 = 1636. I tend to think of events in S3 as being very concentrated over a period of months but have allowed a year, taking it to 1637. Add my 3-year gap and we arrive in the early summer of 1640.
I must, as always, give due deference to Alexandre Dumas and, later, the BBC for giving us these wonderful characters and stories. They are not mine, I have merely borrowed them and attempt, perhaps a little awkwardly, to maintain the canon of the three series, my previous stories and a little of Dumas' creation as far as I can. With the series finishing, I am, as they say, in uncharted territory and what follows is mine and from my imagination. If there are any errors, they are mine too!
I know that, for many, there was an air of dissatisfaction about series 3 but I hope you would put that aside to read about (and enjoy?) what I think might have happened next.
CHAPTER 1
Rain had been falling for most of the day and had still not abated when, in the early evening and hatless as usual, Captain d'Artagnan of the King's Musketeers locked the door of the room that served as his office, pocketed the key and ran lightly down the stairs. Although the rebuilding of the garrison had presented the opportunity of much-needed improvements, there were some things about the original design that could not be bettered, hence the Captain's office being on the first floor with a long balcony, from which he could look down upon activities and necessary training. Two men, hurrying across the muddy yard from the stables to the mess hall, stopped in their tracks to snap to attention.
"At ease, gentlemen," he ordered with a grin. "No need to be so formal at this time of day and in conditions like this. Get out of the rain."
"Sir!" they chorused. One moved on but the other hesitated.
D'Artagnan groaned inwardly; he was getting wet, something that should not happen to any great extent when all he had to do was descend a flight of stairs from one level to another.
"How is Madame d'Artagnan today?" the man asked. "Only we haven't seen her, not with the weather like it is."
"She was fine when I saw her a few hours ago," he assured them, an even broader grin lighting up his features. He faced a barrage of solicitous questions from the men on a daily basis and he had briefly and seriously considered posting an update regarding Constance's health each morning on a board in the room where the men gathered to eat. There were plenty of them who knew their letters and could pass on the news to the minority who were still illiterate. "I doubt that she will be quite so fine if I am late for the dinner she has prepared though," he warned.
"No, Sir; sorry, Sir," the man replied, hastily standing back so that d'Artagnan could continue on his way.
Since he and Constance had announced that they were expecting their first child, the tables were turned. Already a surrogate mother to the young cadets, nurse to the sick and wounded soldiers, and offering a sympathetic ear to a gamut of heartfelt problems that were presented to her, Constance was adored and revered by the men. Her dark auburn hair and ability to stand up for herself both physically and verbally also inspired much respect and not a little fear amongst the regiment, so that they obeyed her as swiftly as they did her husband, their Captain. Now she had her own army of protectors.
It amused d'Artagnan to see cadets and commissioned musketeers almost come to blows as they vied with each other for what they saw as a privilege in accompanying her to the market to carry home her purchases so that she did not have to tire herself. The novelty had quickly worn off for her though, and his independent wife had requested, ordered and finally begged him to find alternative tasks for his men so that she might have some time to herself.
He had laughed then. "My love, it is more than my life's worth to deny my men this task that they have set themselves."
"Do you not consider what your life is worth when you do not comply with your wife's wishes?" she asked ominously.
He had laughed again, pulling her down to sit on his knee as he wrapped his arms around her, kissed her soft cheek and buried his face momentarily in the lustrous, dark hair that curled about her neck.
"You were glad of their help in the early days when you were so tired," he reminded her.
"That was in the early days," she agreed with a curt nod, "and they can be of help nearer the time but for now, I am with child, not suffering from some dire malady. It is like having a hundred husbands looking out for me; I am being smothered. If anything, they are taking better care of me than you do," she remonstrated.
He feigned a hurt look. "You cut me to the quick, Constance. Humour me. I cannot be taking care of you all day, every day –"
"I do not need you to do such a thing," she interrupted, but he had silenced her with an index finger laid upon her lips.
"I know, but that does not stop me worrying about you, both of you," and he dropped his hand to the large swelling where once there had been a trim waistline. "We have waited so long for this and I want to keep you safe. The men are my eyes and ears. I have not asked them to do this but they have seen fit to take it upon themselves to show their affection for you in this way and who am I to deprive them of that?"
She considered his words, sighed, accepted the increased attention and tried to take their help with a good grace but it was hard on a washday, which was nothing short of a nightmare. As soon as signs of her approaching motherhood became obvious, she only had to stand upon the threshold of their quarters into the yard, when a cohort of over-protective musketeers appeared from nowhere, whisking from her hands the loaded washing basket. To begin with, she was still able to persuade them to relinquish the load so that she would be left to hang out the wet items on her own. Then, ignoring her blushes of embarrassment, one, two or even three would hand her the items to drape over the lines, despite her protestations. Letting them handle her husband's undergarments was one thing but to see her more intimate clothing in the grasp of different men or – worse still – young cadets, mortified her. To make matters worse, more recently they had taken the whole of the hanging out chore upon themselves, not even allowing her to stretch up for the line.
"You can do the washing as well next time," she had snapped only two days before.
"Really?" asked an over-eager cadet. "Of course, Madame d'Artagnan; anything if it helps you."
The one job she had delegated more readily was working in the vast vegetable garden she had established in the garrison grounds behind the new kitchen, anything to save some money and to supplement their diet. There had always been one there for as long as she had known the garrison, the first one being set up by the veteran soldier turned regimental cook, Serge. He was such a character and she had grown very fond of him over the years, learning how to deal with his irascible nature and charming him completely. How she missed him, especially now when she could not bend to weed or dig. That she left to others but she did allow the cadets to bring her a chair and she would sit in the shade of a tree, issuing instructions or advice and supervising the activities, just as he had done in his later years. These days, her thoughts frequently turned to the old man.
He had retired shortly after the bulk of the experienced men had gone south to fight the Spanish. At least he had come to the decision himself that he was too old to go with them and he had spared Captain Athos the painful duty of telling him as such. Although Athos had tried to disguise it in his own inimitable way, Serge had seen the relief on the young officer's face when he had 'requested', for obvious reasons, to remain in Paris. He had continued to serve as best he could when Constance and Minister Tréville tried to oversee the training of the new recruits but Serge had quickly come to the realisation that for all the changes he had seen in his long life – changes of regiment, loyalty, leadership, military strategy and even his role from soldier to cook – this was one change too many.
Serge missed the company, camaraderie and conversation of seasoned colleagues. He liked watching the recruits train – always had – but it was not the same. They were helpful when necessary, never disrespectful to him and listened politely to his tales of campaigns, but his days of soldiering had been over long before any of them were born; his links to the old days were gone. These boys were too raw, too new for the talk of a battle-weary old soldier like him. They faced the prospect of joining the musketeer ranks at the front line with a mixture of boyish naivety, a little fear and, more often than not, an exaggerated bravado and enthusiasm – and it was not the same as in those final days of preparation before the regiment departed.
He missed the men, he missed Tréville more than he could ever put into words when the officer moved from the garrison to the palace to take up his new position as Minister for War, and he missed the Inseparables.
Of course, those men were no longer inseparable; something had happened and Aramis had left, gone to Douai to become a monk, keeping a promise to God. That's how Porthos had explained it, anyway. When war was declared, he had seen the excitement in Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan as they had ridden out, unwavering in their belief that their brother would return with them once he knew France was at war. Serge had still been there when the same three had returned, devastated and wrapped in an inexplicable grief that Aramis had not come with them.
Serge had never been privy to the whole story but he had watched as Porthos raged and railed against the world for a couple of days before suppressing his feelings as he turned his attention to war preparations. Athos, a man of few words anyway, never said one again relating to Aramis within Serge's hearing. Instead, he had immersed himself in countless meetings with the Minister as he readied the regiment for departure, constantly making rounds to see what the men were doing, pouring over documents and maps until late into the night and delivering an endless string of instructions from one day to the next. In his turn, Serge never spoke of the empty wine bottles he removed from the Captain's office each morning when the men were too pre-occupied to notice. D'Artagnan took his solace in the arms of his new wife, married just days before the musketeers left Paris.
He worried about them. Separated as they now were – one a monk and many miles away; one a newly promoted captain in the face of overwhelming responsibilities on the eve of war; one recently married and trying to savour every snatched blissful moment to store up memories that might have to last him a shortened lifetime; and one drifting as though lost at sea – they were as if a limb had been amputated. Serge could see that the three were broken and he knew that they had to come back together to support each other if they were to stand any chance of surviving the war. Then they were gone and all he learned of their well-being was from the occasional comments shared by the Minister or from the erratically spaced letters Constance received from her young husband.
The recruits were noisy but Serge was aware of an underlying silence that, to him, was deafening. It was the silence of absent friends, of days gone by and it was as if they were already ghosts. Things would never be the same again.
And so he retired.
There had been a celebratory meal on his last night, one that he had not even had to prepare. Constance and a team of cadets had taken care of that. Tréville had attended, delivered a speech, proposed a toast and given him gifts from the regiment for his long service. The Minister had secured lodgings for him with a widow that would help her and not strain his finances; for his part, he promised that he would not become a stranger and that he would ask if ever he needed help.
He had hoped to slip away quietly the next morning with his meagre belongings packed into a bag and two boxes, along with his ancient and dangerously unreliable musket. However, as he emerged into the yard, a group of cadets was standing to attention, some ready to wish him goodbye and others offering to help him with his luggage to his destination. His eyes misted over at their generosity and thoughtfulness - and then he saw Constance and Tréville seated at the same table where the Inseparables had always seated themselves. The memory made his heart ache even more.
Constance could not hide her tears as she came to him, hugged him for long moments and kissed the old man's wizened cheek. Tréville extended a hand when Serge had extracted himself from Constance's embrace.
"Thought we'd said all our goodbyes last night," Serge grumbled, trying to reproduce some normality.
"We had," Tréville acknowledged, a definite catch in his voice, "And it doesn't get any easier for repeating. Goodbye, old friend. You will be sorely missed and that is why I have something of a proposition to put to you. Let us talk about it as I walk with you to your new home."
The Minister for War and the retired old soldier had walked together out through the archway of the garrison, three cadets following in their wake carrying a collection of belongings.
That was when the suggestion had been made. With taxes being increased to pay for war and the possible threat of food shortages, the garrison occupants needed to help themselves. Serge would not be expected to be there every day; of course not, as he had a retirement to enjoy! It would, however, be a personal favour to the Minister and a definite help to Constance if Serge could give her advice on expanding the vegetable section, what should be planted and when, how to help the vegetables grow and when best to harvest them. There would be some token remuneration for any of his time that he gave up for this; that was to be understood.
The arrangement was reached and the old man continued to come at least twice a week to the garrison to offer his advice and supervision in the expansion of the vegetable garden and, just occasionally, the Minister would find his way there at the same time to have a drink and a talk with an old friend.
As the war progressed, things in Paris went from bad to worse with crippling taxes, the anticipated food shortages happening, the arrival of Governor Feron and the increased brutality of the Red Guard. Crime and exploitation escalated and the cadets were pulled in too many directions to pay too much attention to the vegetable garden. With the passing of the years, Serge had developed too many aches, pains and stiffness to do much himself. Then a dry summer one year was followed by constantly endless rain the next, leading to two bad harvests and little usable seed for the next season; they could not grow enough to help themselves and what little they did have was raided. Their small number had too much to do to guard even their own vegetables.
With the return of the Inseparables – all four of them – there was renewed hope in the fight against corruption, even as Serge's health began to fail.
Then tragedy struck. The King died; a small child became the next ruler of France; Minister Tréville – now regent - was cruelly slain; the garrison was destroyed with many of the young cadets dying in the explosions and resultant fire; Athos resigned his captaincy and left Paris; Porthos was promoted to general and immediately went back to war; Aramis was elevated to the position of First Minister whilst d'Artagnan, as the new Captain, was tasked with rebuilding the garrison and regiment almost from nothing.
It proved too much for Serge. With a heart sorely charged by all that had happened and exhausted beyond measure, he went to bed one night and never woke the next morning. When told of his passing, Constance was almost inconsolable. The new garrison was emerging, phoenix-like, from the ashes when the veteran soldier's body was brought home and laid to rest with many of his brothers, those who had been interred over the eighteen years of the regiment's existence. Constance supervised the maintenance of the musketeer cemetery but took it upon herself to tend the old man's grave, almost as a daughter. She had vowed then that she would create an even bigger vegetable garden in his memory and she compiled a book of all the advice he had given her so that she could refer to it as each year passed, adding to her notes and building upon her experience.
"I have been thinking of Serge very much of late," Constance announced as she and d'Artagnan broke their fast on the morning of all the rain.
"And?" d'Artagnan pressed, wondering what was coming. With less than six weeks to go before the birth of her first child, she had become very thoughtful and nostalgic of late.
"And I think we should get a goat," she continued, blithely cutting a piece of soft cheese.
D'Artagnan frowned, unable to make the connection. "You think of Serge and want a goat?" he queried, hoping that she would enlighten him.
"Yes, we could have several females and a male. We should fence off a section of that open land beyond the vegetables and breed them," she went on.
"Er, we have gone suddenly from one goat to a herd, flock or whatever!"
"Either term would do," she reassured him.
"Why a goat?"
"You said he had a goat one time called Esmerelda and you used the milk for a baby."
"Are you thinking of using a goat for our baby?" d'Artagnan was growing perplexed. He was thinking back to the Christmas Eve some seven years earlier when he and his brothers had been returning from guarding the royal family at the midnight service in the cathedral and they had found the body of a woman in the snow with her new born son who was just clinging to life.* Back at the garrison, Serge had provided goat's milk, explaining that it was better for the orphan. They had named the infant Marius and he had ultimately been taken in by a childless musketeer and his wife.
"Good heavens, no," her eyes widened. "Why would I want a goat for our baby? It will have me!"
D'Artgnan inhaled deeply for he could not dispel his mounting worries as her time drew nearer. Giving birth was still fraught with danger, even for a normally healthy woman like Constance, and he was terrified at the possibility of losing her. Was this her attempt to make ready for every eventuality? He tried to follow her train of thought. "So why do you want a goat, or lots of goats?"
"Why not? We could use the milk, make cheese, eat the meat. There is so much we could do and it would all be another memory of Serge like the garden," she smiled sweetly at him, enthused by her idea.
D'Artagnan got up from the table, walked round it to her and dropped a kiss on the top of her head. "I need to go. It is nearly time for the morning muster but we will discuss the goats when I come back this evening."
He had left it at that as he rapidly delivered tasks in the downpour at the morning muster, went for a lengthy meeting at the palace with the Queen and First Minister Aramis, updated paperwork, signed orders and closely scrutinised cadets during their much-interrupted training between heavy showers.
Now, he had finished for the day and was looking forward to a relaxing evening but the minute d'Artagnan walked into the garrison living quarters that he shared with his wife, he sensed the atmosphere. As he washed his hands in the bowl of water she had set out ready for him, he rapidly searched his mind to see if he had done anything remiss. He had not promised to buy a goat in the intervening hours, had he? There were usually plenty of things he should have done for her these days but the demands of the regiment absorbed his attention, like the occasion barely a month before when Constance left bread in the oven and asked him to remove it sometime later. She had expressly said how much later but he suddenly had a flurry of demands from men for his advice or opinion and he had omitted to retrieve the bread, so that he was left deliberating what to do with the new charcoal brick when Constance had returned.
He was totally bemused by the way that impending motherhood had stolen away the feisty woman he had married and replaced her with one that was highly emotional and increasingly unpredictable. Having berated him for the charred remains and wastefulness of food, she had promptly burst into tears and thrown herself into his arms, begging for forgiveness at the realisation that she had been transformed into an impatient Harradine. How could he still love her when she was so unfair to him? She would only have herself to blame when she drove him from her side and into the arms of another woman.
He had held her as tightly as he dared and assured her repeatedly that she was the love of his life, and she could be a hundred times worse and she still would not be rid of him. Her irrational and tempestuous mood swings were to be understood and all would be well again once the baby was born. He had had such information on good authority - from the Queen herself.
Constance had sniffed and giggled through her tears, slapped him playfully on the chest and accused him of telling untruths.
D'Artagnan had held up both hands, his expression one of mock horror.
"How can you doubt me after all we have been through together?" he had exclaimed.
He could well remember the conversation and the occasion. He and the Queen were strolling through the palace gardens as the young king ran ahead, chasing and tumbling with his new spaniel puppy, a gift from his aunt and her royal husband at the English court.
Anne was missing Constance, her friend and confidante who, in the latter stages of her pregnancy, was not willing to stray far from her garrison home. Anne had suggested visiting her but it was deemed inappropriate. Constance had been horrified at the notion, not that she was ashamed of where she lived, and d'Artagnan had blanched at the idea with the massive escort and the heightened security such a visit would entail. Paris was much quieter than in the days of Feron and Grimaud but there remained an underlying tension. He had appealed to Aramis to deter the Queen from her plan and breathed a sigh of relief when said plan was aborted.
Endless exchanges had subsequently passed between them when Anne invited her to stay at the Louvre for her confinement. Constance had not even been tempted, despite her husband's attempts to persuade her otherwise by stressing that the garrison was no place to bring a baby into the world and, with all the dust, filth and noise, she would know no peace. He reminded her that, having spent most of her pregnancy so far attempting to get away from the close proximity of the men and cadets, here was an opportunity to avoid them totally for a few weeks.
"No matter," she insisted. "This is our home and this is where our child is going to make his or her grand entrance. The men would not countenance otherwise. It would be more than my life's worth to deny them being close at this special time."
"The men!" d'Artagnan spluttered, amazed at how quickly she could change her mind regarding the soldiers and how she was using his own argument – nay, even his own words - against him. He wondered if she were teasing him but one look at her was enough to know that she was in earnest.
She had then smiled and added, almost as an afterthought, "You must thank the Queen for her most gracious offer, but there's an end to it."
Constance's word was final and both Porthos and Aramis had laughed when d'Artagnan complained to them that his wife was beyond listening to reason. The entire brotherhood of musketeers had demonstrated its mettle when, excited at the prospect of the very first musketeer baby to be born within the garrison, they had set to as a unit, using off-duty times to whitewash the Captain's residence, hang new curtains in what was to become a nursery for the infant, and those with carpentry skills presented the overwhelmed couple with a beautifully crafted and carved cradle.
"For the first of the d'Artagnan dynasty," Brujon had declared when Constance had stopped sniffling at the gift and d'Artagnan had found his voice to thank those involved.
Constance had been using her skills as a seamstress to make garments for the little one and it was a credit to her organisational skills and the help from the men that everything that could possibly be done in preparation for the new arrival had been completed with time to spare. It should, therefore, be a period of relaxation for Constance, for taking time for herself as there would be precious little of that once the baby arrived. She had made sure that d'Artagnan was in no doubt about her intentions: she would be looking after baby, running the home and resuming the duties she gave herself within the garrison as soon as possible.
Now he was left wondering what might have instigated this evening's atmosphere. Drying his hands and returning the cloth to its usual hook, he picked up a bowl of vegetables as she went past him with thick slices of meat on a platter and put it on the table. She stood looking distractedly at it as if trying to work out if she had forgotten something important. He deposited the bowl he was carrying and slid his arms around her, kissing the side of her neck.
"Good evening, Madame d'Artagnan," he murmured, rocking her, "and what type of day have you had?"
She did not answer but wriggled from his grasp to sit in her place.
"We must eat before it gets cold," was all she would say, and for the next few minutes they ate in silence.
Suddenly, she frowned, dropped the knife she was using to cut the meat and took a deep breath. "Do you believe in ghosts?"
Startled by the question, d'Artagnan choked on his mouthful of food. He coughed and then gave a small laugh. "Well, of all the things we could have talked about at the dinner table, I did not think of that one."
Her eyes filled with frustrated tears. "Now you're laughing at me!"
"No!" he said quickly, not wanting her to misconstrue anything that might upset her. "I'm not laughing at you. Your question took me by surprise, that's all."
"Well, do you?"
"I don't think so," he answered slowly, warily, wondering what lay behind her initial question and contemplating which possible answer was closest to that which she wanted to hear. He opted for honesty, "but then I have never encountered one. If I were to see one, that would obviously alter my opinion on the matter, but may I ask what has occasioned this?"
"I went to market yesterday and again this morning," Constance began.
"But I thought you had made the decision now not to venture too far until after the birth?" Once again, he was taken aback by her change of mind.
"I was feeling fine, not tired at all. I wanted some fresh air and I needed to get some more fabric," she explained. "Yesterday I saw a tall figure in a long, dark cloak at a distance; he seemed to be keeping pace with me but never actually approached. I had the idea that he was watching me and told myself that I was being foolish, imagining things; another aberration of being with child, no doubt."
"And this figure said nothing to you?" d'Artagnan asked worriedly.
"No. As I said, he never came near. Anyway, I looked about me to make sure the cadets were close by and they were. When I glanced back, he was gone."
"Can you describe him at all? What makes you think that it was a man?" d'Artagnan probed.
"The height and build suggested a man. I did not see his face or hair as he had a hood pulled low, concealing any recognisable features."
"So that was yesterday?" d'Artgnan feared what he might hear next.
"When I went out this morning, I had been browsing the fabric stall for some time and I had the distinct feeling that I was being watched. I looked around me and there he was again, on the other side of the market and between two stalls further down. When he realised that I had seen him, he walked away quickly."
"And where were your escorts all this time?" d'Artagnan was very concerned now. "Did you tell them about this man?"
"They were just behind me; there was no cause for alarm and no, I did not tell them. What could I have said? That I think there is a man in a cloak in a crowded market place who may or may not be looking at me?"
"You could have told them that, certainly," d'Artagnan insisted. "They could have gone after him, demanded of him what he wanted."
"I felt no threat from him."
"How can you say that?" d'Artagnan was incredulous.
"He never came near me and didn't speak; he just appeared to be watching me."
"For now, maybe." D'Artagnan sighed. "So why were you asking about ghosts? Do you think the figure was one? In broad daylight?"
Constance gave a slight shrug as she battled with her emotions. "I don't know. All I do know is that I was not afraid, just a little bothered as I did not expect to see him here." She paused, her distress evident as her eyes brimmed with unshed tears at the memory; she continued hesitantly. "I have heard people say that sometimes you see someone and find out later that you could not have done so as they were nowhere near and had departed this life at that very moment."
"Constance, what are you saying? That you have seen someone who has died? You said that you did not know the person and could see no identifying features. Now you're saying you did not expect to see him, whoever he is." He reached across the table, taking one of her hands in his.
"That's why I asked you about the ghosts. He shouldn't be here. I couldn't identify the figure for certain but there was so much that reminded me of him: the height, the build, the way he moved."
"Who, Constance?" d'Artagnan pressed. "Who do you think it was?"
Wide, dark eyes fixed on him as she breathed a name that he was not anticipating.
"I thought I saw Athos."
A/N
The research begins. Goodness, you have to be careful!
There is an image of Constance amongst her laundered sheets on lines in S2E1 but I did not have her using pegs or clothespins because the earliest was patented in the very early 1800s and the most recognisable was 1858! I didn't want her draping her smalls on bushes in the vegetable garden! I just have to hope that nothing blew away; perhaps she tied them on the line!
And then there were the goats. I have just referred to males and females here because the 'nanny goat' was not so named until the 18th century and the 'billy' even later, in the 19th century!
Also * refers to a story I wrote called "Une Fable Pour Noel."
