An entry for the Fete des Mousquetaires forum's November challenge, Good Samaritan. It follows canon so there are vague spoilers for all three seasons, mostly implicit.
Ripples
Her deliveries have taken too long this morning, and she's hurrying; her husband will be waiting for his meal. And yet she finds her steps taking her the long route through the marketplace. She pauses, her head tilted to one side, fingering her money pouch and calculating. There is just enough, if she is careful... Decision made, she ducks through one of the arches and weaves through the throng, smiling to the stallholders who greet her. The spring sun is warm, today, and its optimism invigorates the weariest of hearts.
At the baker's cart she selects her pastries with care. She points to a rich choux bun flavoured with spices which will please a sophisticated palate; a intricate twist dotted with dried fruit which will taste as good as it looks; and a generously iced creation which she knows will disappear in a couple of bites. There is no hesitation as she selects the last, smiling to herself as she pictures the way his eyes will light up at the smell of the spiced apple wrapped in light pastry and dusted with the finest sugar. She would buy just for him, if she could, but does not want to embarrass him, or herself, and besides her heart is big enough to love all four in different ways.
She hands over the hard-earned sols and notices the baker is distracted, his fingers agitated as he fumbles the pastries into her bag. She thanks him and moves off but pauses, wondering if she knows him well enough to ask what troubles him, and the carpenter on the next stall calls softly to her. "His wife is in labour but he can't afford to close his stall. He's sent his young daughter to check on her and she hasn't returned so he's worried."
She does not hesitate. Dismissing thoughts of her husband, the chores, and the Musketeers, she leaves her purchases with the baker and promises to return with news. Picking up her skirts she dances through the busy alleyways, arriving breathless at the bakery. She ducks into the open alleyway at the side, and up the stairs where the sounds of distress meet her ears.
The daughter looks about eight, and her eyes betray her panic. Constance tells her where to find the doula, a woman experienced in assisting with difficult childbirth, and then to return to her father at the market stall. She fetches cool water to smooth the sweat from the woman's face, and stokes the fire, setting the kettle and clean cloths to warm for when the baby comes. The doula arrives, and they both work calmly to reassure, and encourage. They sweat and worry together, and shed quiet tears of relief when eventually they shepherd a healthy boy into the hands of his mother.
She is exhausted when she emerges to find the alleyway drained of light. The baker has packed up his stall and brought her purchases as he rushes home to greet his new child, so she takes a last detour to the garrison and delivers the pastries, rueing the damage suffered to them as the day has aged. But they are received with good humour and warm thanks, and as she finally heads for home she adds two more images to the special place in her heart where she keeps the best that life gives her: the tears in a father's eyes when he looks on the face of his son for the first time, and the bashful smile in the eyes of a dark-haired Gascon as he accepts her gift.
He has been aware, for around twenty paces, of being followed, but he continues walking at a steady pace, his habitual straight back and erect head making him stand out amongst the milling throng in the market place. He's not concerned, merely irritated, that he is apparently a mark in spite of the pauldron on his shoulder and the sword at his side. His shadower is either stupid or desperate, and both traits can be dangerous and unpredictable.
The attack, when it comes, is neither of those things. There's a bottleneck near the food stall, where delicious scents have drawn a throng of punters and traders alike, waiting amicably for a bowl of something warm to see them through the winter's chill, and as he makes his way around the outside, he feels the faintest of tugs on his belt. It's quick, and decently skilled, but he is quicker and because he's been expecting it, or something like it, he's able to snap his hand around a small wrist and twist. He curses as he's kicked fiercely on the shin, but he holds fast and pivots at the same time, and finds himself holding a squirming, furious boy.
There's a minor surge of interest from passersby which quickly abates as they realise it is just another pickpocket, and his pauldron ensures he's left alone to handle it. The boy is swearing at him now, dark hair flying in all directions as he tries to swing at him, and he takes a firmer grip and tells him to hush. The response is startlingly familiar as the boy glares at him, his chin jutting out in a manner so reminiscent of d'Artagnan at his most obstinate that he loses concentration for a second, and in that instant the boy bites him, and with a twist he is free, off and running into the crowd.
He cradles a throbbing hand and stares after the boy, feeling something like admiration, then shrugs and resumes his path, knowing he will not see him again.
He is wrong. He spots him again barely a day later. This time he's stalking a maid who is clearly buying provisions for her employer, and he feels a surge of annoyance. A rich target is fair game, in his book: anyone daft enough to carry their wealth ostentatiously, oblivious to their surroundings, does not deserve his sympathy. But a hard-working young woman is a different matter, and he changes course to intercept them, catching hold of the boy by his collar just as he reaches a hand into her bag.
He yanks the boy backwards and pulls him into a quiet doorway without the maid ever realising how close she had come to losing her purse, and possibly her employment. The boy struggles until he looks up and recognises his mark from the day before, then stares in consternation.
"You should pick your targets more carefully," he tells him.
The boy gapes at him, then rallies. "None 'a ya business!" he snaps, fiercely.
"I'm a Musketeer. Everything in this city is my business," he tells him sternly. The boy drops his eyes, but doesn't relax, and again he's reminded strongly of d'Artagnan, that first time in the Garrison yard: he's all attitude and fire, sinew and heart. Not an ounce of fat on him.
"Are you hungry?" he finds himself saying, and blinks in surprise. He had not expected to ask that.
The lad looks equally startled, but answers quickly enough. "No! Let me go, ya pervert!"
His lips twitch. "No, lad, I'm many things but not that. Come, I was on my way to The Wren. Keep me company."
He keeps a firm hand on the lad's collar but after the first hesitation, the boy follows. His eyes dart around wildly when they enter the tavern – it's not likely he's been inside many – but he's clearly torn between wanting to leg it, and his desire to see what opportunities this encounter may bring.
He picks a table near the back of the inn, where it's quiet, and signals to the barkeep, who brings over two bowls of soup and bread; he mutters at the sight of the boy but pockets the coins readily enough and leaves them alone.
He eats slowly and alone, at first: the boy stares suspiciously first at the soup and then at the other customers, but eventually he can't resist the smell and picks up his spoon, eating surprisingly delicately. Somewhere along the line he's been taught his manners.
He cannot understand why he is wasting time on this boy. He should be at the Garrison, running a training session, not eating lunch barely an hour after breaking his fast. He eschews the company of strangers, and prefers to eat alone unless he's with his brothers, but something about this boy intrigues him.
When they've both finished eating the boy puts his spoon down, hesitates, then says thank you. The boy could have disappeared at any point during the meal – still could, in fact, and Athos will not stop him if he leaves. He can see, from the way he keeps looking at the door, that the boy is thinking about fleeing, but something keeps him here and eventually curiosity overwhelms his fears. "What d'you want? Why didn't you turn me in?"
It's a good question, and he doesn't have an answer. At least, not one he can express: he doesn't think the lad will understand how the defiant jut of his chin has captured Athos, who is as surprised by his actions as the boy. In the end he clears his throat and mutters something about not liking to see good lads go to waste.
The boy rolls his eyes, and Athos finds himself smiling again. He has spirit, that's for sure. He wonders how old he is, and without planning it, he asks.
Before long he's established that the boy is called Jean-Paul, he's 13 – older than his size suggested – and he's been living in the Court - Paris' slum area - for two years since most of his family died of the fever. His younger sister lives with his uncle, but he was kicked out when he refused to work in the uncle's tannery in favour of going to school. Athos blinks at this, and the boy explains defiantly that he'd liked school, and hated the stink of urine and rotten meat in the tanning yard. Athos doesn't blame him.
He tells Jean-Paul he has to get back to the garrison, and marvels at the fleeting look of disappointment that flashes across his features. Wondering what has got into him today, he finds himself inviting the lad to accompany him, and within an hour he has secured him a few hours' work mucking out the stables every day, in return for a lunchtime meal. The boy's face is a picture, but it's nothing compared to Porthos when he sees Athos handing Jean-Paul his second-best blanket and suggesting he sleep in the stables if he chooses.
It doesn't last. Jean-Paul is not great with the horses, and though he tries hard, it's clear he hates the work. But for a few months he's well-fed, and warm, and the men look after him though they pretend to find him a nuisance. By the time he's found himself a job he really wants, keeping the records for an apothecary, he's acquired a whole new set of clothing, and a haircut, and he looks like a different boy. Athos watches him go with a fond smile, and vows to visit him regularly.
They are late, and tired. It's been raining all week and the roads are treacherous with mud. Their cheeks sting in the icy winds, their leathers are soaked and unyielding, their fingers are stiff in their gloves, and water drips steadily from the brows of their hats. All except for one, who still insists on riding hatless. They've given up asking him why, suspecting that he has no reason other than stubborn pride. His shoulders are hunched and the water is streaming from his hair into his eyes and down his neck, but it's pointless to complain so he bears the discomfort, and their teasing, with stoic indifference.
They almost miss the call. It's nearly dark, and the wind is picking up, tossing the tree-branches and teasing their ears. But their marksman's sharp eyes pick out the boy running across the field towards the road, and they pause, checking automatically for danger as they wait for him to reach them.
He's breathless, and he has to repeat himself before they understand the words he pants. Something about a horse, who is evidently precious because he repeats the name and starts to describe her before they steer him back to the reason for his panic. The foal is stuck, he tells them, and bursts into tears.
They exchange glances, sitting easily astride their impatient warhorses as they lay back their ears and skitter sideways, trying to turn their hindquarters to the wind.
"I'll help," he says, inevitably, and the others suppress sighs of relief as he tells them to carry on. They are only a couple of leagues from the city gates, and this is a safe area, so they wait while he scoops up the boy and sets him on the saddle before him, then turn their faces into the rain and give the horses their heads.
He watches as the three set off at a mud-splattering gallop and disappear into the gloom, then sighs, thinking regretfully of the cosy mess-room where they will head as soon as they've settled their horses. Serge always knows who is due back, and makes sure there's a pot of stew warming on the hearth. The kid shifts anxiously on the saddle, so he pats him on the shoulder and urges his horse down the gloomy track, apologising to her in his head for keeping her out in the rain.
They reach a huddle of farm buildings and he heads for the barn without asking; it's lit from within and he can hear the restless shifting of livestock which tells him all he needs to know. The lad slides down and runs ahead to open the barn door, and he rides straight in, ducking under the door frame.
Lanterns hang from the rafters and paint the scene with a warm glow. To his left are stalls with several cows, a huddle of sheep, a sow whose teats are heavy with milk, and chickens roosting in every nook. Everything is in good order and he begins to relax, seeing the signs of good husbandry. He dismounts in the central aisle and hands the reins to the lad who is urging him anxiously to the large stall on his right, where he sees a gaunt man rising ponderously to his feet.
He introduces himself absently but his eyes are on the heavy horse lying on her side in the stall. Her swollen belly looks taut, and even as he watches she lifts her head into the air and groans as a contraction ripples her sides. Her tail lifts briefly but then her head flops back to the straw which cushions her straining body. He climbs over the partition and pulls off gloves and doublet, listening as the farmer explains that the foal is breech, which is hard for this first time mother.
He's only helped at a couple of foalings but has seen plenty of other animals born and the principles are the same. The head should deliver first, funnelling the birth canal naturally by its shape. A pair of hooves – back or front - can too easily get caught up, and in a breech birth the bulk of the haunches presenting in an un-stretched canal means she'll need help.
He kneels beside her, rolling up his sleeves. His hands are strong after years of sword-work, but slimmer than the farmer's, and he is able to insinuate his hand so he can feel what's happening. His heart sinks as he finds just one hoof, the other still tucked up inside. He strains, and winces as his actions set off another contraction, her powerful muscles clenching around his forearm.
He finds the second hoof but it's twenty minutes before he manages to manipulate the body of the foal enough to bring the hoof forward to join the other. Now at least the foal is coming straight. He sits back, cleaning blood and mucus from his arm with a rag dipped in lukewarm water, and watches as she strains again.
After another hour she's exhausted. The foal's rear legs are visible but that's all. Dark sweat covers her flanks, and her eyes are white with distress. She's an Ardennes, dark bay with an honest head and sturdy bones, and the foal is big. They confer. The farmer has not questioned his presence here, or his knowledge. The language of the land runs deep.
They wrap cloth around the foal's legs to protect the unborn skin, and tie ropes. Now they can work together, with secure grip, and they time their efforts to each contraction, leaning back and grunting with exertion. For a long time nothing improves, and they both fear for the mare as well as the foal; nature is unforgiving and they have no more tricks to help her. She struggles and flails her legs. A flying hoof catches him on the thigh with a powerful kick and he curses as he scrambles out of the way. They keep trying, changing the angle of the ropes, and plant their boots on her haunches, lying on the ground to strain with their whole weight, and eventually something works and the foal's stubby tail emerges. The boy helps steer the body that follows, and suddenly it's flopping onto their legs in a steam of bloody fluid.
They scramble stiffly to it, using cloths and hands and wisps of straw to clear the mucus and rub the limp body. He stands, picking it up by the hind legs, and rubs fiercely downwards, using gravity to drain the fluids that have seeped into its lungs during the traumatic birth. He notices the boy is crying silently and redoubles his efforts.
This foal, he knows, represents the future of the farm. They are not rich, but they work hard – he can see it in their faces - and they need this. The boy will grow up with the foal, if it lives, and love it fiercely with all his heart. If it dies, the mare will fester. She may die anyway if there is too much damage to her womb, and this year will be ruined when it's barely begun.
He's distracted, telling the boy to keep faith, so almost misses the gasp as the foal drags in its first tentative breath. He catches it up in his arms and lays it gently in the straw by the mare's head. She nudges it, and it breathes again, and tries to lift its head, eyes blinking, nostrils flaring. She starts to lick it, her rough tongue helping to stimulate and dry, and they stand back to watch the miracle of life begin.
He's exhausted, as he rides the last few leagues to Paris; his thigh aches fiercely where he was kicked, his clothes are sodden, his leathers clammy, his hands stiff and aching. But the memory of mare and foal cleaned up, both standing; the boy rushing in with a bowl of warm mash for her; the farmer guiding the foal to its first drink of milk, its tail swishing with pleasure' and the tired contentment on both their faces as he slips away, is enough to warm his heart as he enters the silent city streets.
The Garrison guards greet him and one insists on seeing to his horse: orders from the Captain, one explains ruefully.
He heads wearily over to his room, too tired to even contemplate investigating the mess room. He just wants to get out of his wet clothing and hope for a couple of hours' sleep before morning muster.
At the top of the dark stairs he notices light spilling from his room. He pushes open the door cautiously and nearly falls over a pair of booted legs: Porthos, asleep in the chair. The room is warm and the fire has recently been stoked. With a groan of pleasure he rips off his doublet and breeches and sinks to the rug by the fire, holding out frozen fingers to the warmth. A pair of warm hands drop a blanket over his shoulders and start to rub his back and arms in much the same way as he had rubbed life into the foal a few hours earlier. He looks up at Porthos' sleepy face with a grateful smile. It's good to be home.
They tease him, constantly, about his women, but really his night-time activities are fewer, these days. His heart's not in the game anymore. Not since Adele had vanished after the Cardinal discovered her affair, even though by the time he realised what had happened his heart already belonged to another. His impossible love has trapped him, stopping his easy dance through Paris' lonely hearts and leaving him adrift.
He lives to love, not just physically but with his soul, needing always to nurture and cherish the best of those around him. His hands itch to comfort and his mind constantly rehearses words of support that he will never be able to utter. For a man of action, his enforced distance is torture.
He's cleaning his guns, again, the rhythmic motions helping to distract him from his thoughts, when a whistle from the gate lifts his head. The whole courtyard turns and watches as the guards point towards him, and usher a vision of yellow through the archway. Her blonde curls dance around her head, and as she steps delicately across the cobbles towards him she picks her skirts high off the mud, revealing dainty ankles and impractical court slippers. The men are polite enough to hold their whistles and catcalls but he catches the nudges and grins as he rises, sweeps his hat from his head and bows over her hand. He listens as she speaks softly, then offers his arm and resettles his hat, steers her around a puddle and escorts her out, pausing to ask the guards to take his guns to his room and give his apologies to Tréville for missing evening muster.
It's morning before they see him again. He walks in slowly, looking subdued, and weary. They tease him as he lowers himself to the bench between them, reaching for a cup, and Porthos nudges him as he asks if it was a good night. His eyes are blank as he answers noncommittally, and none of them miss the slight tremor in his long fingers. They exchange glances, and d'Artagnan disappears, returning with a bowl of steaming oats drizzled with honey, which he places without comment in front of the night-wanderer.
He looks at it for a long moment before nodding his thanks. They let him eat in peace, and he visibly relaxes, the tension dropping out of his shoulders as he realises they will respect his privacy. When he pushes the bowl away he feels warmed inside by the food, and outside by their silent concern.
He does not explain, and they never ask, but he finds himself excused from morning duty so he can sleep, which is why he misses the messenger who arrives later in the day. When he rises, Athos tells him the details of the funeral mass which will take place the following morning. He doesn't question why Aramis is invited to mourn with the architect whose wife died last night. He knows that, when the doctors can do nothing to ease a passing other than pad their bills, some folk turn to Aramis.
He did it first for a friend whose father was dying, visiting daily to talk, suggest potions that would help ease his discomfort, and give gentle support and prayers.
Since then, to Athos' certain knowledge, he has been called on at least three times. He, of all of them, knows Aramis would not have been dallying last night, but he is pleased to see that both Porthos and d'Artagnan focus on Aramis' low mood and exhaustion, and don't speculate but simply support.
Aramis will always embody contradiction. He's a soldier whose marksmanship has taken many lives and a medic who has saved many more through his skill, knowledge and care. He's a hopeless romantic and a man of God, and he feels each loss deeply, regardless of whether he has taken the life himself, or failed to save a life. Sometimes his soul cannot reconcile the dichotomy and he simply grinds to a halt. At these times he relies on Porthos' steadfast presence, or Athos' silent wisdom, or d'Artagnan's bright-eyed optimism, to sustain him until he can place his feet firmly underneath him again.
He hates Paris now.
It's his hometown; it's where his mother dreamed of a future for him.
It's where he'd found his first brothers, and learned to lead those who hungered with him.
Paris taught him to be lean, to fight hard and laugh harder, to cherish every moment.
Paris teased him with the stench of her river and the noise of her docks, the hustle and spice of her market places, the flash of a woman's eyes and the danger in her dark alleys.
It's where he tasted adulthood far too young, danced the streets and the rooftops, lost his virginity to a twenty-year-old with fire in her eyes and ice in her heart.
Then Paris gave him his second brothers – his family – and a home, and a purpose. He walked the streets with pride then, seeing his honour reflected in the eyes of those who watched the tall Musketeer with awe.
That was before. Before four years of war had drained his optimism and leached the sparkle from his eyes. Before Aramis had chosen to protect the brotherhood by deserting them and handing his life to God. Before he'd spilled his own blood, tears and sweat onto every acre of soil in each of France's borders. Before the faces of the lost brothers – all those he'd been unable to protect – drifted unbidden into his mind whenever he stopped doing. Before he'd come home to find his city run by a ruthless killer, a slimy bastard Red Guard captain, and Louis' sinister, sycophantic half brother, and over-run by refugees, embittered war-veterans and desperate countrymen who had lost everything in the chaos of war.
Porthos is a bit lost.
He's swallowed every bitter thought he'd harboured for Aramis, and remembered how to love and trust him again, but it is different now. Aramis is distant, more controlled. More sad. And he is still keeping secrets from them.
d'Artagnan is struggling to find his feet. He left Paris as a young Musketeer, talented but inexperienced, just married, barely into his twenties. He's returned as a war hero, a veteran looked up to by new Musketeers years older than him, and returned to a wife for whom obedience to her husband no longer comes naturally. She's all fire, and she knows Paris better than him, now, and he's still trying to find his place.
And Athos is battling his own demons. He makes a good Captain, but he's tired of it. He went straight from loyal lieutenant to regimental leader during four years at war, and he's not had time to breathe. He's carried the weight of too many lives on his shoulders for too long, and there's a part of him which wants to walk away from it all right now. He's said nothing – of course – but Porthos can see it in his eyes, and it scares him.
So when he finds himself alone for the third night in a row, as Athos disappears to the refugee camp to visit Sylvie, and d'Artagnan excuses himself to eat with Constance, and Aramis is doing something he hasn't bothered to explain to Porthos, he heads, not for the Wren, but for a hostelry he knows teeters on the cusp of violence even on a good day.
Porthos is hoping it is not a good day.
And he's not disappointed. He recognises the military bearing of the ex-soldiers who lean on the pillars near the entrance, and spots several off-duty Red Guard at a table near the back. In between are some disillusioned merchants and a couple of Italian traders who have no idea what they've walked into. He heads happily to the bar, cracking his knuckles, and waits for things to erupt.
It doesn't take long. There's an overloud comment from the Red Guard's table, a sour rejoinder from the front, one of the Italians trips over a merchant's sample bag on the way to the bar, and it flares within seconds.
He doesn't care who he thumps. He is impartial with his fists, dishing out bone-jarring punches equitably and with joyous equanimity. He needed this.
The barkeep is screeching, wielding a broom handle like a scythe but only adding to the chaos.
Porthos stoops, shoves a shoulder into the gut of a portly Red Guard and tosses him over his shoulder without looking, even as he grabs the next one by the collar. On the wall behind the bar a giant shadow twists and jabs in time with his movements as he works his way through the room.
He is untouchable in this mood and they scuttle from his path, but he is merciless in pursuit. He doesn't kill, or maim, but he punishes them for being here, for being in the wrong uniform or the wrong country, for complaining and scheming instead of protecting and upholding his city.
He's running out of victims as he lifts a final Red Guard by the throat, pinning him to the wall and snarling into his face, but as he draws his fist back something stays his hand. The guard is a lad, no more than d'Artagnan's age when he first arrived in Paris, and the look on his face is a mixture of terror and resignation.
It's the resignation that gets to him. The look that says he's grown up expecting nothing from life, and isn't surprised when life smacks him in the teeth.
Porthos grunts, as if he's been punched in the stomach, and lowers the lad till his feet touch the ground. Behind him the brawl continues – tonight everyone has pent up fears and anger, it seems – but he just stares at the lad, eyebrows furrowed as he wonders, for the first time that night, just how this will help. And sighs. And turns away, stooping to collect his hat before weaving his way past the writhing heaps of struggling, swearing men and out into the cool night air.
He stops to take a breath, sniffing Paris' armpit appreciatively. Then spins as he hears the door open and close behind him.
The young guard is there, arms held out to his sides, gulping down his apprehension to ask, in a trembling voice: "Why? Am I not the measure of any Guard in there? Why did you turn from me?"
Porthos registers the indignant tone and huffs a smile, holding out his hand. "No, lad: you are worthy of better than a bar-brawl. And so am I."
The guard is still gaping so Porthos shrugs, uses his outstretched hand to pat his shoulder, and walks away.
The acrid stench of burning clings to him even in Christophe's tavern, but even so the stink hits his nostrils afresh as he steps out and crosses the square towards what's left of the Garrison. He falters, feeling the air catch in his battered lungs again, before forcing his weary steps onwards. He stops in the archway, red-rimmed eyes smarting in his soot-streaked face as he surveys the devastation of the courtyard.
Blackened timbers lean at crazy angles, still smouldering and in some places glowing and sparking. There is nothing left of the armoury, or the stables, and they are lucky to have rescued the horses. Some of the barracks walls have collapsed, adding heaps of stone to the rubble that litters the yard. His eyes travel across the chaos, where groups of slow-moving Musketeers pull wearily at the coolest timbers, to the door he'd kicked open a few hours ago when he burst out from the smoke-filled storerooms, carrying his unconscious wife in his arms, and his stomach clenches at the thought of how close he'd come to losing her.
There's a shout from his right, and he sees Porthos leap back as the support he's been pulling on crashes to the ground, sparks and soot flying into the air. d'Artagnan blinks the grit from his eyes and tells himself to go over, to help, or support, but he can't move. He doesn't know where to start.
The burn on the back of his neck pulls every time he turns his head, and his hands throb where he'd used them to pull the smouldering timber away from the cellar door where he found Constance and Brujon. He'll need treatment, but right now Constance and Aramis are too busy trying to save the lives of those so badly burned in the explosion and fire set by the Red Guards. Athos is at the Palace, Porthos is using his strength and determination to start the clear-up, and d'Artagnan can only stand, weariness thundering in his ears, unable to make his feet move.
A hand slips under his arm, and he smiles in spite of everything. She snuggles into him, taking comfort from his warmth for a second, and he wraps his other arm around her and drops a kiss onto her head. Then they both sigh and pull apart. She looks up at him, starts to tell him that they need more bandages, more salve, more everything... and stops at his expression, and turns to see what he is looking at.
There's a couple standing in the archway holding baskets, and she recognises "her" baker, the man whose son she'd helped to deliver all those years ago, and his lovely wife. She goes to greet them, pulling d'Artagnan with her and reminding him quietly of the baker's name as they approach. Monsieur Ficelle looks bashful as he shows her the baskets, piled high with loaves, rolls, pastries and pies.
"That's your whole night's baking!" she exclaims.
He chuffs. "We can make more. We want to help." He looks embarrassed and Constance steps on d'Artagnan's toe before he can offend them by refusing their gifts. So he thanks them gruffly, and points out the tavern where Christophe will welcome the contribution: he was worried about how to feed all the survivors, and this will help, at least for a few hours.
Before they can resume their conversation there's another interruption, this time from someone d'Artagnan knows immediately: Jean-Paul, the lad Athos took under his wing. He's done well for himself, learning the apothecary's trade, and they see him often around the city. He comes straight up to them, holding a crate packed tightly with straw, the gleam of blue and green glass glinting from its depths. "Monsieur Tisserand thought you might need some supplies," he says, without preamble, holding the crate out. d'Artagnan takes it automatically, suppressing a wince as the rough wood irritates his weeping palms. Jean-Paul notices though, and deftly plucks a large pot from the straw, removing the lid and sniffing the contents before holding it out to Constance. "Juniper and lavender oil – very good for burns. Two pots in there." She smiles her thanks, taking the crate firmly from d'Artagnan and giving him the pot of salve, giving him a look which says he'd better use it. He nods and watches fondly as the pair walk across the square to the tavern, comparing notes on what he has brought and what other supplies they will need.
Porthos comes up beside him, looking bleak, and d'Artagnan nudges him. "Why don't you take a break?"
He shrugs, sighs. There's so much to do. "We've started stackin' the useable timbers outside but there's a week's work in 'ere just to clear the rubble before we can even think about rebuildin'. I 'ope Athos comes back with some good news."
d'Artagnan nods carefully. Aramis returned from the Palace with some medical supplies but they will need more, and food, and timber, and manpower, and weapons, and clothing, and blankets, and beds... they have all lost everything they owned. Everything.
d'Artagnan tells him there's fresh bread at the tavern and Porthos finds enough energy to hasten across the square. d'Artagnan joins two men trying to clear the remains of the stable roof so they can reach the timbers beneath.
Someone calls his name and he turns to find another vaguely familiar visitor. He can't place him until he sees the saw bench he's carrying, and spots the wrap of tools slung from his shoulder. Before he can speak, the man says: "It might be too soon for my skills, but my tools will help, and I can bring some more muscle if you need it?"
d'Artagnan blinks, nods, and scrapes together a few words of thanks. The carpenter, Monsieur Arimathea, is a regular in the market and d'Artagnan has often bought gifts for Constance from him; he remembers now that he's a good friend of the baker Ficelle. The craftsman stacks his tools neatly under the arch, accepting d'Artagnan's assurance they will be safe there, and heads off to find help now he's seen the scale of the devastation for himself.
By the time Porthos returns from the tavern, the courtyard is seething with activity. There's a large pile of reclaimed timbers outside, and a clear space in the centre. Women from the surrounding neighbourhood are filling baskets with rubble and men are lugging it away. Porthos spots d'Artagnan and approaches him, wide-eyed at the progress made in just an hour. "What 'appened?"
d'Artagnan straightens, wipes a filthy hand across his brow and shrugs. "Not sure. People keep arriving to help, though I don't know how they know what we need."
Porthos feels a tug of optimism. "We're part of this city, ain't we? She looks after her own." He heads off to where the carpenter is starting to chisel a blackened timber back down to its unburned core.
Athos returns several hours later, steps slowing as he approaches the garrison and smells the acrid smell still hanging over the Rue Colombier. He feels dread at seeing the devastation again, and anxiety churns in his stomach as he thinks about visiting the tavern where, he fears, some of his men might have passed while he was doing battle with Her Majesty's treasurer, negotiating for money and materials. He's secured some, but not enough, and the scale of the task ahead is daunting.
The first thing that hits him is the smell. The air is full of smoke, but it's clean smoke now and carries with it the scent of roast meat. Confused, he turns the corner into the archway and stops dead.
The courtyard is lit with a hundred torches wedged into every crack in the wall, every hole where a timber should rest. Their shadows dance crazily across the thrum of activity in the courtyard. Groups of men and women work in every corner, shifting and sorting timber, planning it down to good wood, sweeping and clearing. In the corner where the stables used to stand, someone has rigged a canvas, hanging it from the remains of the roof supports, and under it there's a camp fire where men and women are gathered to eat and talk quietly.
He sees Aramis bent over someone seated on a stack of sacks, and moves towards him. Aramis is talking – no, chastising, he recognises the tone easily – and he sighs, guessing who might be the recipient. He nods to himself as Aramis straightens and turns to pack his supplies away in his satchel, and he sees it is indeed d'Artagnan the medic was ministering to, his hands now wrapped in clean white bandages and a familiar rueful expression on his face. He looks up to thank Aramis and sees Athos approaching, and leaps instantly to his feet.
"Athos! Look at this!" He waves a hand expansively around the courtyard and Athos tips his head on one side, feeling his face soften at the Gascon's enthusiasm.
"I'm looking – but I can't believe it," he comments quietly past the lump in his throat. It's true. He'd left a scene of devastation and chaos this morning, and grief-stricken, demoralised Musketeers wandering helplessly around the smoking ruins. Now...
"What are they doing here?" he snaps out, suddenly spotting a group of Red Guard uniforms working on rebuilding a wall.
"They came to help. They – " d'Artagnan stops at the snarl of rage from Athos.
"Help? They caused this! What the hell do you think you're doing, letting them even set foot in here!"
Suddenly Porthos is there, placing his bulk between Athos and the courtyard and speaking quietly to him. Between them they explain about the young Red Guard who Porthos had nearly thumped one night in a bar brawl, how he'd remembered Porthos' words when he'd turned away from the fight. How he and some of the other Red Guard hated Marcheaux and his reign of terror enough to come and work alongside the Musketeers.
Athos subsides, and d'Artagnan quickly talks about the way Paris has helped them today, and introduces him to the architect Mansart, who has brought half his builders with him because Aramis once sat up all night helping to ease his dying wife's pain. Aramis brings him a welcome cup of wine supplied by a merchant, Corbiere, who remembers when a group of Musketeer cadets helped to mend a wheel on his delivery wagon then escorted his wines safely to his warehouse outside Paris.
Feeling dazed, Athos sits where he is told and accepts a baguette, juicy with slices of roasted pork, and starts eating hungrily.
"Where...?" he mumbles, waving the food appreciatively.
The grin on d'Artagnan's face is enough to ease the last weight from Athos' shoulders. "Allow me to introduce Élan," he beams. Athos turns, expecting to see a man, but sees no one behind him. Looking blankly back, he sees d'Artagnan move to a large workhorse dozing in a corner of the courtyard. He watches as d'Artagnan greets the horse enthusiastically, rubbing at the white blaze on his hairy roman nose and pulling at the soft brown ears, then drags a young lad back towards Athos.
"This is Marc, and that magnificent animal is the foal I helped to deliver. Do you remember, in that rainstorm?" Athos scrambles to keep up; this day has moved too fast and although he has a vague memory of d'Artagnan spending the night helping at a farm outside Paris, it was years ago and he can't quite see what that has to do with...
"He heard about the fire when he arrived at market today, so he brought all their produce to us, can you believe it?" d'Artagnan clearly can, and ruffles the youngster's hair fondly before coming back to sit with Athos.
"I can't..."
"I know, it's unbelievable, isn't it?" d'Artagnan agrees happily, stabbing a slice of Athos' meat with his knife, folding it and stuffing it into his mouth greedily.
Athos blinks as a sudden gust swirls smoke from the campfire into his eyes. Or so he tells himself as he wipes an arm across his forehead, then back across his eyes.
"The whole city has helped, it seems."
"I know! The refugees, artisans, merchants, minor nobles... I couldn't take it in to begin with but it seems everyone has a good word for us and wants to help. It made me realise we're more than just soldiers... Sometimes, after the war, it was hard to remember that." d'Artagnan's face clouds for a moment, then he shakes himself and calls Aramis over. "What was that thing you said, from the Bible?" he asks.
Aramis pats him on the shoulder as he passes. "Do good, reap good," he intones, and Athos chuckles. Trust Aramis to have the last word, he thinks, and leans back against Porthos' frame, feeling d'Artagnan settle on his other side. Maybe good will come of this, he muses. A fresh start, for all of them. He closes his eyes and lets sleep take him, knowing his brothers have got his back. Literally.
Authors Note: I got a bit carried away with the names. Corbiere (the wine merchant) is a variety of red wine from southern France. Ficelle ( the baker) is a type of thin baguette. Tisserand (the apothecary) is a term in modern aromatherapy. Arimathea (the carpenter) is the home town of Joseph, husband of Mother Mary. Élan is a town in the Ardennes region where this breed of French workhorses originates. And Mansart (the architect) was a real-life 17th century Parisian baroque architect, who worked on Queen Anne of Austria's Val-de-Grâce convent until she sacked him for being too profligate and perfectionist!
Disclaimer: the characters belong to Dumas and The BBC. The rest is all from my imagination, given freely for the enjoyment of others.