The Agreement
All belongs to the BBC and Mr Dumas. I was working on this, around the same time as In Her Service and decided to plough on and finish it. It's Constance centric, I love her character but enjoy writing her as she helps tease out the characters/personalities of the musketeers. I'm a canon purist and try to capture the on-screen characters as closely as possible in my fics. All thoughts, feedback, hints and tips are most welcome!
"I really, really, don't think we should do this."
D'Artagnan had sounded much better rehearsing this speech. He had sounded firm and resolute, every bit the authoritative musketeer he intended to be. Here in the warmth of Constance's kitchen, he sounded more like a pleading old woman.
"Funnily enough," Constance bustled in from the workshop and placed a basket full of materials on the table, "I'm not all that interested in what you think of this. You gave me your word."
"Technically," D'Artagnan said, "I just said yes. That's not exactly giving my word." He watched as Constance dropped to her knees and began digging around the bottom of the kitchen dresser, "Think of it as more of an agreement rather than a firm commitment. I'm simply asking us to revisit the terms of the agreement," he said reasonably, "that's all."
Constance frowned in concentration, her arm now buried in the cupboard, "So you agree there was an agreement?"
"Well, yes, it's just that I…"
"Good because I am perfectly happy with the agreed terms." Constance smiled with triumph as she evidently found whatever it was she was looking for. Sure enough, she pulled a battered looking box free, placed it on the dresser shelf and jumping to her feet, dusted her hands against her apron. She spared him a glance, her voice firm now. "D'Artagnan, you're teaching me to fight like a man with a gun and sword, just as you promised."
"It sounds worse when you say it out loud," D'Artagnan said with a half groan, "I really shouldn't have said yes."
There wasn't an ounce of sympathy in her voice. "Well you did and you've been dragging your feet for days about it. We are starting this afternoon."
Constance really was the most single minded woman he had ever met. He tried another tack. "There are practicalities to consider."
"Like what?" Grabbing a cloth, Constance wiped the box down and returned to the table with it.
D'Artagnan paced to the fireplace. "Gun firing isn't exactly a silent activity. We'd be sure to get caught," he paused allowing that notion to sink in before playing what was his final and surely winning card. "Monsieur Bonacieux is sure to find out."
Constance glanced up from the box and flashed a bright smile at him, "Maison de la Roche."
D'Artagnan paused, briefly wondering if she had any idea of just how beautiful she looked, lit up by one of her ideas, "Maison de…"
"La Roche," Constance repeated cheerfully. "It's an old abandoned summer house on the western outskirts, we can shoot all day there and no-one will hear us."
"Wonderful," D'Artagnan said dryly. He frowned as Constance finally pried the lid of the box open and exposed the contents. "What on earth," he said slowly, "is that?"
"The house gun," Constance said proudly, as though she was presenting her firstborn. She passed it to him, "Isn't it lovely?"
Aghast, D'Artagnan reached for the weapon and turned it over in his hands. "This," he said with conviction, examining the rusted trigger, "is a hazard to anyone who tries to use it."
Constance's indignant hands flew to her hips. "It's been in the family for years."
"That doesn't surprise me," D'Artagnan told her. "It's an antique and," he frowned, "why on earth does it smell of lavender?"
Constance crossly snatched it from him.
D'Artagnan eyed her pointedly, "you can just leave that here, try using that thing and one of us will come back minus an eye."
She frowned, and then brightened. "That means we are going then?"
D'Artagnan surveyed Constance, his stomach sinking. She was standing there, shoulders bare, hair slipping around her face, eyes wide and hopeful, caught in a ray of afternoon light. He found it impossible to say no to Constance in almost all things. This was no exception.
Still, it was worth one final effort.
"I'm worried you'll get hurt."
Something crossed her face, a shadow, a trouble, then it was gone and Constance was herself again, practical and grounded. Sliding the battered looking musket back into the box, she glanced up at him.
"You won't let anything happen to me," she said simply. "Now come on."
They had fun. At the back of the old country house, D'Artagnan taught her to fire and fight. Constance showed little hesitance, impressive concentration and surprising aptitude, particularly with a sword. There were a few heated conversations initially, during which Constance declared that D'Artagnan was a condescending, overbearing teacher and D'Artagnan declared that he had never encountered another person so unwilling to listen to reason – but the pair soon settled into a reasonably polite student teacher relationship.
D'Artagnan watched Constance now as she practised her footwork, thrusting the blade as he had taught her. She thrived on this, he reflected, on testing and stretching herself. Constance was not born for the life she lived, she was adventure and passion, spirit and in his dreams, on cold nights beneath him, she was fire. Constance was the ache in him, the yearning that gnawed and pulled and pushed at him from one day to the next. Try as he might, these feelings would not extinguish. One way or another, he had to have her in his life.
Even, D'Artagnan thought ruefully, if it meant introducing her to all manner of dangerous activities. He didn't want to know what Athos would make of these lessons.
"I've got it." Constance swung around, clearly pleased with herself. She raised her sword and narrowed her eyes menacingly. "Prepare yourself."
D'Artagnan grinned at the sight of her, advancing toward him intently. He swung his own sword and lazily matched her amateur cuts and parries, his eyes never leaving her face.
She intoxicated him.
END OF CHAPTER ONE.