Well here it is. The final chapter. I really enjoyed writing this story and even more than that your reviews! Thank you all.
I hope to start a new story soon. But before that I may actually have to do some work and take care my kids!
Chapter 4
"Constance, come to bed." D'Artagnan calls to her, "I'm cold."
She sighs heavily and leaves her place where she has been hovering over Marie's crib to join him in the bed.
He reaches out to her, to draw her close, to reassure her, but the movement causes him pain and he unwittingly lets out a groan. She places a hand on his forehead.
"Do you have fever?" She asks, concerned.
"No, I'm just cold. And I want my wife in bed with me." He pouts at her.
She gets in under the blankets next to him and takes his hand in hers.
"Fine, but no snuggling. You heard what Aramis said."
"Aramis said to try and keep still. He didn't warn me that I would be denied the warmth of a woman's touch."
"Next time you'll think twice before nearly getting yourself killed," she retorts, but he can see that she is teasing, her eyes twinkle in the moonlight coming through the window. She moves closer to him and he wraps an arm around her.
She leans in to kiss him, keeping her body far away from his so as not to hurt him too much. Just as their kisses become heated she hears his sharp intake of breath. They part and he drops back onto the pillows, breathing heavily, eyes tightly shut.
"'m sorry." He mumbles.
She cuts him off with a finger to his lips. "Nothing to be sorry for my love," she says, stroking back his hair, easing him into sleep, "when you're better you will just have to expand enormous energies making it up to me."
"Oh, I plan to." He replies.
"Shush now," she tells him, "it's been a very long day. You need to sleep."
####
Constance slowed down Captain Treville's pace, needing to stop frequently for the sake of Marie. As a result the captain sent on ahead the surgeon and a small group of guards. Although she is exhausted by the journey she will not show it, and when they finally reach their destination races up the stone steps, only to encounter the massive form of Porthos blocking her way in the entrance hall.
"Constance!" His mouth is wide open upon seeing her.
She tries to get around him but every time she moves, he moves with her.
"Get out of my way Porthos," she growls.
Captain Treville appears at her side. "Constance," he tries to calm her, "I'm sure you need to rest and that Marie needs to be taken care of. Let us find somewhere for you to recover a little."
Marie has begun to whimper in her sling, upset by her mother's tone of voice. Constance extracts her from the cloth sling and kisses her head. She then thrusts the baby at Porthos.
"She fed an hour ago. I'm sure you can manage. Now, which way?"
Porthos, looking frightened half to death, inclines his head up the stairs, and Constance lifts up her skirts and sets off at a run. She hasn't got all the way up when she encounters Athos, arm in sling, running straight into him. He gasps in pain but uses his good arm to hold her in place. Porthos looks up from below at the spectacle as Athos and Constance employ their best stare tactics to face each other down.
"Constance, the surgeon is still with him. Wait until he is finished and d'Artagnan is comfortable."
"Thank you for your concern, but as you well know, I am not squeamish. I've patched the lot of you enough times."
But Athos does not let go. He holds her firmly in place. She raises her hands to his chest and beats on him with her fists but he doesn't give in. After a few moments the tears start to course down her cheeks and she stops hitting him, collapsing onto his chest. He holds her in a one arm embrace, staring at the others below him with a knowing look. "Hush now, let it out," he whispers into her hair, feeling soft strands tickle his cheeks. This is the closest he has ever come to a sister. "He's not out of danger yet, but it isn't so bad either. He will pull through."
Constance finally feels the strength which has gotten her through the past day seep out of her and collapses onto the hard stone steps. Athos goes down with her, holding her tight.
####
The arrival of three handsome musketeers (and a fourth who turns out to be equally handsome once cleaned up a little) is the most exciting thing to have happened in the convent. Ever.
For Sister Francine it breaks the monotony of the simple life she chose. Their convent is on the pilgrim route and their doors are always open to the sick and needy. She herself has even acquired something of a reputation as a healer in the region. They have had their fare share of the dying, those making a pilgrimage in the hope of a cure, of infertile wives, of sinners, but this is a whole new ballgame.
Sister Francine and a number of the nuns run out of the convent at the sound of hooves, to be greeted by the sight of three musketeers on horseback, one carrying an unconscious man wrapped up in his blue cloak. She shows them to a simple room and sends off her sisters to bring water, bandages and the like. She immediately sees that one musketeer has a musketball in his shoulder, but he waves away their attentions, standing on one side of the bed of his gravely wounded friend while opposite him another one begins his work. She watches as the man's fingers flutter gently over the immobile body, feeling for injuries while not causing pain, his eyes betraying deep concentration. She understands his acts and watches, silently. Finally when his assessment his done he looks up at his friends.
"Porthos," he says to the tallest of them, "Ride to the nearest village and send word to Treville. We need a surgeon." She sees the tall man gulp, swallow down his questions and run out to obey the order.
As soon as he is gone, his friend sinks to his knees by the bed. The wounded musketeer strides around the bed and pulls him up, staring into his eyes.
"Aramis," so that is his name, she thinks, fitting, it reminds of her love, and his hands bespeak such love, "You need to pull yourself together and help him, now!"
"Athos, it is one thing for me to sew up a wound or remove a musketball on the battlefield. Never have I had to deal with such injuries as these, and on one so young. I cannot…."
"You have no choice. Think of Constance, think of Marie!"
"He has broken ribs, head wounds and goodness only knows what internal injuries. The leg must be reset by a surgeon. His fever is dangerously high. I don't know where to start!" Aramis looks so lost and Athos looks about to lose his temper.
This is her cue to act. "If I may, gentle sir," she makes her presence known, coming in between the two of them, "I have some experience in treating the sick, although not the wounded. Allow me to assist you. I and my sisters will clean his wounds and treat his fever while you will help your wounded friend. After that we will see what else can be done for Monsieur…"
"D'Artagnan," Aramis completes her sentence. He looks at her and nods his head. Athos, although reluctant agrees also and moves back from Aramis. He turns to Sister Francine.
"We will not leave this room however sister. Please do not read our fear as mistrust of your order, but we do not know if we have been pursued and we must protect him with our lives."
"Of course, he is your friend."
"No sister, he is our brother in all but blood." Athos replies.
As Aramis patches up Athos, Sister Francine and two nuns clean the layers of dirt and grime from d'Artagnan's body, exposing the full extent of his injuries. They place cool cloths on his head and chest, bring herbs and tinctures.
When Aramis has finished he works he joins Sister Francine's side.
"Thank you." He tells her. She merely inclines her head a little, not wanting him to see her blush. "Some of these wounds require stitching, that I will do. Although, perhaps you could assist me. You would learn from it a new skill."
Sister Francine watches with fascination as he works. She passes him whatever he requires and on a few occasions their hands brush against each other, feather light touches that make her stomach flutter.
It is dawn before they are finished their work. Aramis looks on the verge of collapse and Athos has given into his pain and blood loss and fallen asleep on blankets placed for him in the corner of the room.
"All we can do now is keep his fever down and pray," says Sister Francine. "Sleep Aramis, I will watch him."
Aramis can only nod in ascent and join his friend on the floor.
Sister Francine draws a chair to the bedside and replaces the wet cloths with cooler ones. She watches the rise and fall of this man's chest, listens to the snores of the other two. She is in the same position when the third, Porthos, returns, only to join his brothers on the floor, snoring loudest of them all.
When the sun is already high she shakes Aramis lightly. He wakes with a start, hand on his sword.
"My apologies, sister, you startled me."
"No apology necessary, sir. But my other duties call me."
"Of course, sister. I will take it from here." He rises up, stretching, from between the other two and takes her seat.
She pauses at the door and looks back.
"Aramis," she says, "I have seen many things in my life, but never anything like this. Who could…"
"It is best you do not know, gentle sister. It is enough to say that there are both devils and angels in this world."
She nods and leaves.
Sister Francine is at matins when the commotion of the woman's arrival takes place. Leaving the chapel she runs into Porthos carrying a baby and talking heatedly with another man. Neither of them seem to know exactly what to do with the screaming bundle, so she stretches out her arms and takes it. Looking down at the baby she understands that this is his child, and the woman's shouts must be those of his wife. What a brave heart such a woman must have.
She gives the baby into the care of her sisters, pries the woman away from Athos and leads her to one of the convent's sparse rooms. There she helps her to wash and clean up in silence. She brings Constance clean plain cotton clothes.
"You are Constance?" she asks. When the woman looks at her suspiciously she quickly continues, "I am Sister Francine. I have heard them talk of you." Any further conversation is interrupted by the door opening and Aramis' entrance. He throws himself into a chair, followed by the other two. He looks exhausted, with black rings under his eyes. Sister Francine wants nothing more than to take him in her arms and smooth down his mop of unruly hair. Instead she remains standing beside Constance.
"The surgeon had to re-break his ankle and re-set it. He has broken ribs, internal bruising and a lot of cuts. The head wound is a bit of a worry, but he has a thick skull, so hopefully he'll be fine. We need to control his fever and keep him as still and pain-free as possible."
"Just the usual, run of the mill then," Says Constance, forcing a smile onto her lips.
"Pretty much."
Despite being prepared by Aramis, Constance isn't ready for the sight that greets her. Her husband, her d'Artagnan, is never that still. He is always on the move. She longs for him to open his eyes and give her his cheeky smile, to lean against the wall, thumbs hooked in his belt, looking cocky, she longs for the sound of his sword clinking, of his cloak swishing.
His skin is a pale color that she doesn't recognize. His chest is covered in bandages, his face littered with cuts and bruises. She can make out the lump of the splint on his broken leg. She sees the beads of sweat on his brow and immediately takes the cloth from the bowl of water next to the bed and sponges it down.
The other three hang back, lurking, but not for long. Sister Francine watches on as they move in around Constance, forming a protective circle around her, an arm on her shoulder or her hand. She listens to their easy banter and understands that this is the truest family there can be.
###
It seems like an eternity until he wakes. Treville leaves as soon as he has had his report, riding to Paris as fast as he can in order to do some damage control with the king and cardinal. The surgeon departs the next day, saying he can do no more, nature must take its course. The head wounds were serious, he may or may not wake. The fever may or may not kill him. Constance wipes his brow with cool cloths what must be hundreds of times as he alternately sweats and then shivers. They change his dressings, trickle water into his throat, only to have him retch it out, and still he does not wake. Aramis grinds more herbs and makes tinctures and pastes. Porthos paces and Athos broods. Eventually their presence drives her out of her mind and she screams at them to go and find something better to do with themselves. She shoos them out of the room. Tells them to ride into the nearest village and get themselves drunk and not come back before morning.
She barely sees Marie. The nuns seem reluctant to give her up, cooing at her and bouncing on their knees incessantly. Life in a convent must be very dull, Constance thinks.
After two days, sitting at his side, her hope is waning. As she finishes feeding Marie in the chair next to his bed she feels the tears falling from her eyes. She kisses the top of her baby's head and then places her on the bed next to her father. Marie waves her little arms and legs around, gurgling happily to herself. Constance feels the sun warming her back as it streams in through the window. She sits back down and takes his hand in hers.
There are so many things she wants to say. How much she loves him and needs him. Instead she finds herself talking to her daughter.
"Yes sweetie, this is your daddy. He's an idiot. He has to go and make such a fuss to get attention. If he'd wanted a holiday in the country, he could just have said."
It's then that she sees his fingers moving. She looks at his face to see his eyelids fluttering, as though dreaming. She puts her hand on his cheek and strokes it, shushing him as she does to Marie. It seems to work and he quiets down. In another few moments his eyes open and shut immediately again in the face of the sunlight. She rushes to close the drapes.
"Here, try again now."
"'stance," he manages to get out, his throat dry and rough.
Never in her life has she felt such a sense of relief. She bites her lip and swats away the tears with the back of her hand. She brings a cup of water to his lips and dribbles some into his mouth.
"Yes, that would be me," she whispers.
He grasps her hand and squeezes it. Marie lets out another of her little squeaks and he turns his head towards her. She sees the smile spread over his face as he drifts off to sleep again.
When the other three tumble in, hung over and noisy, she raises a finger to her lips. They can't conceal their grins.
"How was he?" ssks Aramis.
"He knew who I was."
"Good, no brain damage then." He announces.
"Told you he has a thick skull," says Porthos.
"'ts not as 'ick as y'rs." Comes a voice from the bed.
"Idiots, you've gone and woken him up. It's not enough I have one baby to look after?" They can all see that she is joking and relief is written all over her face. They approach the bed and for the first time in days Athos manages to smile.
"'thos, y're hurt", says d'Artagnan, taking in his friend's bandaged shoulder.
"A mere scratch," replies the older man.
"Sorry, says d'Artagnan.
"Apologize for that again and I may punch you," declares Athos, "On the other hand, we need to talk about your hare-brained schemes."
"Not my finest moment. Thank you all for getting me out."
"That's what we do," declares Porthos, "and it was kind of fun to see the cardinal that mad."
D'Artagnan chuckles and then grimaces in pain.
Aramis reaches for a draught by the bed and encourages him to sip some of it. "Rest now and try not to move, there's a good boy."
"P'thos, y're eye? You g't hurt too?" Constance turns to look at the big man, who indeed has a horrible black eye forming.
"Oh this? It's your wife's fault. Time you learned to keep her in line."
She smacks him on the arm.
"Well, if you hadn't forced us to find an inn, Porthos would not have had to cheat at cards, get caught and begin a fight. It is perfect reasoning." Aramis declares.
Once again, d'Artagnan drifts into sleep with a smile on his face.
Over the next days their mood grows lighter. His fever finally breaks and he remains awake for longer and longer periods. They manage to raise him up and feed him soup and he takes sips of water. Aramis makes up pain draughts which Constance gives him at night, as much as he protests that they are unnecessary. The three men play cards, Porthos attempting to invent new cheating tricks which will not get him caught quite so quickly.
Sister Francine visits them now only to bring food and replenish water or other supplies. Whenever she enters the room she feels Aramis' eyes on her, as she passes him in the corridor sometimes they brush against each other, ever so slightly. Yet she also notices that Athos sees it all. When the nun and Ararmis are in the same room Athos endeavors to stand between them. At one point Constance comments on it to Porthos, who shrugs his shoulders, well aware of Aramis' womanizing but not understanding since when Athos has had a problem with it. She suspects this has something to do with that other time they were in a convent. When she asks Athos about it he tells her that Aramis doesn't do well in convents, in a tone that tells her that he will answer no more questions.
One day, Porthos and Aramis play fighting on the grass outside, Constance finds herself alone with Athos, the two having barely spoken since she attacked him upon her arrival.
She looks at him. His eyes are downcast, arms crossed over his chest, typically defensive. "Out with it then," She says.
He looks up at her, his eyes dark.
"I'm sorry." He says simply.
"Whatever for?" she asks.
"For not protecting him, for not bringing him back to you in one piece, for failing you."
"Oh Athos," Constance says, rising and going to him, "I know what he is and what you are. You are not to blame. He is his own man and makes his own choices. No one knows that better than I." She puts her arms around Athos and holds him close to her. "None of this is your fault. Do you hear me? If anyone's to blame, it's him for getting himself caught."
"Oy," says a weak voice from the bed, "he is awake and he is wondering why his best friend is hugging his wife."
"Oh shut up you trouble maker," says Constance, placing herself on the edge of the bed next to him, easing him up and helping him to drink.
####
The quiet routine they have established is broken by the arrival of a royal coach, with a note from Treville. The king has sent this coach to bring them back and would like an audience with d'Artagnan, to thank him personally. Aramis is fuming, pacing the bedroom, muttering that his patient is not yet ready to travel and that this may cause a setback in his recovery. Porthos tries to pacify him, reminding him that this is the king and it is in his capricious nature.
And so they must depart.
Sister Francine helps Constance to prepare herself, her husband and the baby. They give d'Artagnan a sleeping draught so that he will not feel the pain of the journey as the bad roads jostle his broken bones. As she goes about her duty, Sister Francine already feels the loss of Aramis.
Part of her is looking forward to the quiet. Enough of the boots clomping up and down her stairs, the mess and the screaming baby. But another part of her knows that her life will never be quite the same again.
As she bids them goodbye it is Athos who lingers to thank her, he the one who has said almost nothing to her throughout their stay. His eyes tell her of hurt, of his love for his brothers, and that whatever he does, it is to protect them.
The coach stops at a number of inns on the way, breaking up the journey. Constance is glad of it, for both d'Artagnan and Marie's sakes. Although it is still taxing on them all and she is relieved to see the outskirts of Paris.
The coach, flanked by three musketeers on their trusty steeds, is met by a group of guards who escort it straight to the Palace. No protests work, the king will see his most favored musketeer and thank him now. Aramis shakes his head in despair and Athos fumes in silence. Porthos hopes that maybe there will be a reward in it for them all.
The king, with Treville at his side, receives them with excitement in his eyes. He loves such stories of bravery and courage. He is also relieved to hear that his envoy left the country safely.
The king, springing up from his chair and walking around congratulates himself on his choice of musketeers, "I knew he was a loyal one, didn't I Treville? Yes, I saw it straight away. Quite the best of my musketeers."
He then seems to actually take in d'Artagnan's state, supported by Athos on one side and Aramis on the other.
"And are you well sir?" He enquires of d'Artagnan.
"I must admit to your majesty that I have been better," a response which elicits a slight chuckle from his friends.
"A chair, we must bring him a chair," commands the king.
D'Artagnan shakes his head, "I could not presume to sit in his majesty's presence."
"Well, if it's that or fall, let's sit shall we?" Says Athos drily, easing him down into the chair brought by a servant.
At that exact moment the doors are flung open and the cardinal, with his retinue enters. D'Artagnan visibly stiffens at his entrance.
"Why Cardinal, you are just in time. See here one of Treville's musketeers, on an errand of state was caught by bandits and held hostage. Such a wonderful tale."
"Full of wonder indeed, sire," says the Cardinal, "I would love to hear more of this tale." The last word is dripping with sarcasm.
D'Artagnan attempts to rise in the face of his enemy, but two forceful hands on his shoulders pin him down.
Treville, ever a man of tact, takes the opportunity, "Sir, I believe that Monsieur d'Artagnan has had a long journey and must be in need of rest."
"Of course, captain, how silly of me." The King approaches d'Artagnan, removes a ring from his finger and presses it into his hand. This time his friends help d'Artagnan to rise and bow.
"I hope that you shall remain my loyal servant for many years."
"I too, your majesty."
"Come Cardinal, let us withdraw and I will tell you the story," says the king merrily, as they leave the room.
###
At the palace Constance is feeling dirty, messy and under-dressed. Her feelings only worsen as she is conducted through a maze of corridors to a small sitting room where she finds herself face to face with none other than the queen.
She drops into a low curtsey, trying to bat down the strands of hair that have come loose from her bun with her free hand.
"Please rise," says the queen, "and sit with me. I would thank you."
"Thank me, your majesty? Whatever for?"
"It is rare for a king's musketeer to marry and have a family. You must be a very special woman."
Constance blushes. Marie begins to fuss in her arms.
"May I?" asks the queen.
Constance, lost for words for pretty much the first time in her life, hands Marie to the queen.
"She is quiet beautiful. Her father's eyes, I see. And your hair. A wonderful combination."
Their interview is interrupted when the door is flung open and a young boy comes running into the room, followed closely by a lady-in-waiting.
"Apologies, your majesty. I will take him away."
"No matter. Leave him. Come Louis, see the pretty baby."
The toddler approaches his mother and inspects Marie, looking thoroughly unimpressed. The queen hands the baby back to Constance and takes Louis on to her knee. She whispers something in his ear and the boy smiles.
Constance has never seen the royal child up close, and certainly never seen him smile. When she does, she understands all too clearly why Aramis has a problem with convents.
"I wanted to thank you for looking after all of them." Says the queen, very quietly. The look that passes between the women needs no words. Under the grime of travel and with her messy hair, Constance thinks that she is luckiest woman in the world.
D'Artagnan is pleased to be back in his own bed. His eyes fall closed as soon as his head hits the pillow. Aramis checks him over to be sure that no further harm has been done, before taking up residence in the lodger's room that was once the Gascon's. Concerned that the cardinal may seek revenge, they have decided to remain on guard until the man of the house is healed.
In the middle of the night Constance is woken by a muffled cry and a hiss. Immediately alert she sees d'Artagnan standing by Marie's crib and rushes to him.
"What are you doing out of bed?" She demands.
"I couldn't sleep and I thought I heard her. I had hoped to let you sleep."
"Come on, back to bed with you." She eases him back into bed and then picks up Marie, who has begun to whimper.
"Here," she says, "drink this so you can sleep." She brings some of the sleeping draught to his lips.
He shakes his head.
"I feel so useless. I can't do anything. I have to keep you safe from the cardinal."
"The cardinal is not going to do anything to the king's favorite. He is far too clever for that. Now stop this nonsense and drink."
After he does she sits next to him on the edge of the bed, nursing Marie. She strokes his hair as his eyes begin to close.
"Now listen. You are not useless. Stupid, hotheaded and brash, yes. Useless, no. Marie and I have many uses for you. But the next time you decide we need a holiday, let's just go the seaside, ok?"
"Just as long as you stop complaining that I never took you on a honeymoon."