For a time, Anne simply lies on the bed, on the bloody sheets. She's too exhausted to move so the midwives can take them away. Too exhausted, too sad. Her body hurts. She stares upward at the ornately decorated ceiling, trying to ignore the pain.
No one else is in the room. There are the guards on the other side of the door, but no one other than Anne on the inside. Louis made his visit earlier. It was brisk and professional—as almost all of their interactions were. He offered a few words of consolation, and then left. Anne was not sure if it was fair to blame him for his distance. She knew herself to have made no real efforts to love him, not to genuinely, intimately love him.
On doctor's orders, Anne is confined to her bed for the next few days. After the initial news and reaction spreads, she begins to receive more well-wishers. First it is her ladies-in-waiting, then her maids. When the doctor her deems her well enough to be seen in public again, more arrive, the less intimate: foreign dignitaries and officials, the king's courtiers.
Anne stays away from her duties as she recovers. Not so much her decision as it is the king's. If it were up to her, Anne would have resumed her role as queen a day after the miscarriage. He acquiesces in two weeks, though, and allows her to be present when the Musketeers make their next call to report on their latest.
The four of them are tactful enough to not acknowledge in the company of others what has passed. They're there for business, not emotional comfort. The king seems more bothered by this than Anne, though he lets it go. They all bow to her courteously, as they normally do, perhaps with some subtle gentleness—but nothing more.
"Now listen, you boys," Treville begins in hushed tones. They're standing right outside the palace, about to enter. "You all know that the Queen has just suffered a most disastrous tragedy. None of you are to bring it up when we go there, you understand? You leave them to grieve on it themselves, unless they bring it up first. I won't have any complaints of forwardness brought to my desk."
All four nod. Aramis says, as an afterthought, "Come on, who do you think we are, captain? Gentlemen to the core, all of us. We won't say anything."
"I never know what's going on in your heads," Treville says gruffly. "Especially you, Aramis. Today isn't the day to be fooling around with the palace ladies."
Aramis puts his hand over his heart. "I won't try a thing."
Despite her eagerness to forget everything, Anne can't deny the physical strains. She stays as long as she can, but has to excuse herself before long. "Forgive me, sire," she says to Louis. "I'll take my leave now."
"Of course," Louis says. "I'll send someone to your chambers, shall I?"
"No, thank you," Anne says. "I think I'd rather sit in the gardens. Come, ladies." With a little gesture, she draws her ladies-in-waiting close and nods to the Musketeers. "Good day, monsieurs. I am sorry I won't be able to enjoy your company any longer."
It is a relief to be in the outdoors, Anne reflects. Rarely she goes so long without taking her customary stroll through the gardens. She and her ladies settle down in the shade, a refreshing coolness on the hot day.
At first Anne thinks the clinking noise is the birds. But it's far too uniform and regular, and mechanical too. She sits straighter and looks around. One of the musketeers is walking close by on the path that wraps around the hedges, for whatever reason. The path is sheltered by a canopy of vines and flowers, throwing the interior into partial shade, but Anne recognizes a large buckle worn diagonally across his chest. Aramis, walking closer and closer, his many weapons and belts the culprits. He hasn't seemed to realize they are in the vicinity.
"Stay here," she instructs her ladies, and hurries to cut him off and makes it in time to step onto the path in front of him.
"Whoa!" Aramis stops short, and takes a few steps off. He removes his hat. "Your Majesty."
"What are you doing in the gardens?" Anne asks, careful not to sound accusatory.
"Just on my way to fetch a few things for the captain," Aramis says. "He says through here is the quickest way. I'm sorry if I've bothered you."
"No—" Anne says quickly. "You didn't. I thought it must be something of that sort," she lies. She steps to the side to let him pass, but he doesn't. Instead, he continues to stand there, meeting her gaze. Anne falters. "You may go," she clarifies.
"Are you all right, Your Majesty?" Aramis asks, ignoring her permission. Damned if Treville gets a note, he thinks. Anne raises her head slightly.
"Quite all right," she asserts. She wraps her hands nervously around each other and breaks her eye contact, immediately giving herself away, and she knows as much. "The king—" she starts to speak again, "—he is very anxious for a son. That's all. He took this loss extremely hard. I believe he thought this time there would be a child."
Privately, Aramis thinks this is highly insensitive on the king's part, but he keeps it to himself. "You will have children soon," he says.
"I fear he will grow tired of me before that," Anne says. "A man can only wait so long, and it has been ten years."
Aramis casts aside the formalities. "Any man would be a fool to grow tired of you, Your Majesty, on the grounds of having no children," he says. "If he did, you would be too good for him, and better rid of him."
No one has ever spoken of her husband in such a manner. Anne worries for a moment that someone will hear Aramis's words, even though there is no one else in the gardens, other than her ladies. Still, she can't help warning him. "You must not speak of the king so," she says. "They will have you arrested for such talk."
"If it is to assure his queen she is not unworthy, I would gladly risk it."
Anne smiles then, just a little bit. "Well, I thank you, Monsieur. Though do be careful. If not for your own sake, then mine."
"Of course, Your Majesty," Aramis says. "Do not fret. It is clear to me by your disposition now that God has restored you to good health."
Anne laughs halfheartedly. "I fear God has already given me too much favor."
Almost on impulse, Aramis suddenly jerks his hand to his chest, to where the rosary Anne had given him before lies under his layers. The Queen notices and frowns when Aramis pulls the chain out. "I treasure your gift everyday," Aramis says, "but France is in more need of her gracious queen, not a mere musketeer."
Anne steps back and shakes her head. "No, no, monsieur. That is yours to keep. Please, I thank you. But do not make me take it back. I would like it to be yours."
Aramis studies the queen. For a long time, it doesn't seem as if he is willing to obey the queen, but he at last tucks it back under his jacket and bows again. "Very well."
"You should be off now," Anne says. "The captain will be waiting for you. I've held you up for too long already. If he reprimands you, you may ask him to speak with me. That goes for whatever the king might say as well."
"Yes, Your Majesty. Thank you." Aramis reaches out to bring her hand up for a kiss. It's just for a second, and release. He puts his hat back on and hurries down the path. He can feel the rosary through his shirt. In the gardens, Anne can feel his lips on her hand.