Chapter Two:
Athos sees his friends off just a few minutes after shooing them from the command tent to pack a few meager essentials in their saddle bags.
He keeps the goodbyes short - a hard brief hug for each man, whispered instructions for Porthos on trying to keep d'Artagnan's fears from overcoming him. Then he lets them go with a curt nod, poker face, and a final reminder for Porthos to return swiftly once their youngest brother is safely on French soil once again. You would never know it's one of the harder things he's ever done – watching them ride away.
He keeps vigil until they're just a dust cloud in the distance and then Athos turns back towards his tent and the men under his command. He paces through the encampment distractedly, wishing for Aramis again with each booted step and feeling more isolated than he has in years. The melancholy turns his feet in a set direction, one the captain knows he shouldn't tread – not under any circumstances. Still - he takes the path that will lead him to her anyways.
Tabita is cooking, as she ever is. Her countrymen would label her a traitor - helping the invaders, but since Athos rescued her from a group of Spanish soldiers' intent on rape, 'Beth' wants only to remain near him.
She looks up at his approach, delighted smile curling her pretty mouth, blue eyes twinkling, and Athos feels a rare if sad smile curve his own lips in response, it's unusual - the effect that she has on him. She's little, and fair for a Spaniard, speaks just enough French to communicate, and every time he lays eyes on her Athos knows how wrong it is of him to allow her to remain here.
"Athos," she greets him, holding out her slight hand for him to take.
The musketeers' Captain hesitates for a moment, but ultimately reaches back; taking her hand he twines it into his arm. Beth steps into his side and looks up at him and Athos recalls a vivid memory of Constance doing the exact same thing - outside the chapel on the day of her wedding. He looks down at Beth but sees instead his friend's beautiful wife, glowing with love, so excited to finally be joining her life with d'Artagnan's, and so grateful to him for agreeing to step in where her father would not and give her away.
He blinks and the memory fades, Beth's face replacing Constance's but the same grateful smile looking up at him still. His face must telegraph his disquiet for her arm tightens around his and she shakes him slightly, eyebrows rising as she struggles for the French words to ask him,
"What troubles you?"
Athos shakes his head; he needs a distraction, not to talk about it. So instead he does something very foolish, something surely much more Aramis than he, he dips his head towards hers, Beth's eyes flare in recognition of his intent, but then she pushes him away before he can do this thing she already knows he'll regret. She tugs her arm gently from his; blushing and confused she fusses with the shabby, worn fabric of her simple dress.
Athos sighs. "I'm sorry," he apologizes clumsily. "That was selfish and impulsive of me."
At his voice, she meets his gaze, eyes troubled and awash for a moment with something infinitely sad. She studies him for a long time, finally looking behind him, her focus searching through the throng of soldiers clearly seeking his closest companions.
"Where?" She asks, "Where Porthos . . . D'Artagnan?"
"To Paris," Athos replies. "D'Artagnan's wife gave birth to a baby daughter."
The news has Beth all smiles, face lighting up. Athos thinks perhaps d'Artagnan has talked with her about Constance, talking about her always seemed to bring her so much closer for him.
Athos cannot smile back though, and with his gloomy expression Beth's own delight fades, he tries to explain. "The baby came early. Things are . . . not well." It seems the words are no easier to speak now with longer knowledge of the events, than they were an hour ago.
"You fear for them?" She asks.
Athos nods. "For all of them," he replies. "D'Artagnan-"He doesn't continue. He doesn't have to.
Beth holds out her hand for his and Athos takes it, cradles it within both of his. The look on his face is both wistful and contrite, entirely Athos; pulling you in even as it pushes you away. So Beth stays steadfast and still, she simply lets him hold her hand quietly and hopes it will comfort him.
D'Artagnan is silent as he and Porthos head towards the French border with as much speed as they can, given the need not to overtax their mounts, and the care with which they must make the treacherous journey.
Porthos feels like he's trying to pay attention to everything at once. Their surroundings, the possibilities for ambush, signs of any other soldiers, yet he's most acutely aware of his youngest brother and the heavy cloud that seems to have subsumed him.
Stealing another quick glance behind him, Porthos tenses at the hard look on d'Artagnan's handsome face. D'Artagnan is sunny by nature. Always laughing, always smiling, mischievous, always looking for the positive. It's rare to see him sullen or withdrawn – though he has been quieter of late as comrades have fallen and injuries have piled up. Porthos has seen him often of an evening pouring over Constance's letters, callused fingertips caressing the paper, losing himself within the words his wife has only recently learned to pen for him.
The sight made him envious then - to have that, real love, pure and deep, an endless emotion. But this - this is the other side of it, Porthos realizes. The side he's seen eating at Athos' soul, lost love darkening his demeanor until he drowns himself in drink. Athos always has to drag himself out from under the weight of it; Porthos hands tighten unconsciously on his horses' reins, unable to stand the thought of it becoming that way for d'Artagnan.
A bullet whizzes by his ear, snapping his attention back as it slams into a boulder. Fragments of stone splinter into the air and Porthos' horse rears and then stumbles before regaining her footing and veering towards the tree line a half league towards the northeast of them.
"Head for the trees." He hears d'Artagnan yell from behind him. Another shot goes wide, hitting the ground a few feet from them, and Porthos pushes his mare into a full gallop as d'Artagnan's midnight gelding outpaces him and races ahead.
Porthos doesn't look back for their attackers, time enough for that when they've hit cover. He just stays consciously behind his brother and prays that if any shot finds its mark today it hits him.
The Queen of France paces anxiously outside the bed-chamber of her best-friend and tries to ignore the sting of tears that seem to be constantly on the verge of falling these past few days. Behind her she's aware of the scrutiny of her lady-in-waiting, the subtle displeasure and disbelief that the Queen of France is not abed at this hour and is instead restless about the health of a servant - beloved though that servant is known to be.
But Anne couldn't care less if the woman finds her behaviour unseemly.
After the Dauphin - and his father, Constance d'Artagnan is to Queen Anne the most important person in her life. Both confidante and substitute sister, Constance is as her name, a steadfast presence and source of support. Unfailingly loyal and practical, Anne knows the deep debts she owes her friend are ones she can never repay. Worse - now when Constance needs help the most – Anne is practically powerless to aid her.
The baby shouldn't have come yet, and the odds are not great that her letter to Athos has gotten through.
The door to the bed-chamber opens and the Kings' latest head physician trundles wearily through.
"How is she?" The Queen asks, years of training stilling her feet that want to rush forward whilst imbuing her voice with as little fear as possible, as much regal command.
The doctor is learned and well regarded, but he wasn't best impressed at first with being asked to wait on a common servant. Anne has hopes though that these last few days he's been won over by Constance's youth and beauty, her obvious strength of character.
Doctor Sauveterre chews on his lip; looking thoughtful he shakes his head slightly.
"There is a little change, your Majesty," he says guardedly. "Her fever hasn't broken, but the heavy bleeding has eased. What remains is normal for a woman after giving birth – you would know this as a mother yourself. She is young, but until the fever breaks it would be unfair of me to tell you that we can be optimistic."
Anne fights to keep her voice steady and wins. "What of her daughter?"
The doctor looks grave. "The infant is small and frail. Almost impossible to feed, and her lungs are congested. It might be kindness your Majesty to simply let the poor thing go quietly."
Anne feels her face change, iron control slipping she lets her outrage show. Lets the full force of her horror and disgust at the mere mention of the idea flood fully across her lovely features, it has the desired effect almost immediately.
The Kings' physician back pedals frantically.
"Of course, maybe I'm being too hasty. If it's Gods' will then the child will pass on, my job of course is to do everything in my expertise to keep the little girl alive."
Anne steps close, places her arm on Doctor Sauveterre's arm. "If that baby were mine, I would expect no less of you than I do now," she tells him softly, raising her eyebrow she adds, "I've sent for the baby's father, d'Artagnan is the King's champion and personally commissioned Musketeer - you would surely prefer such a man to be in your debt, Doctor?"
The implication is clear. 'Do all you can because you do not want this man as your enemy.'
"I will check on the child again now, Majesty. You can be sure I will see she is attended to tirelessly. I will come back and assess Madame d'Artagnan in the morning – if you'll excuse me."
Anne nods regally. "Thank you."
Making a decision the Queen turns and dismisses her sleepy lady-in-waiting, before gathering her skirts and hurrying through the door to check on Constance for herself. Approaching the bed she finds a parlor maid diligently mopping her friend's fevered forehead, the young girl looks up, flustered to find the Queen herself, but Anne can't be bothered right now by expectations. She just smiles and holds her hand out for the cloth, shooing the girl to the side she seats herself on the bed, eyes scanning her friends' beautiful face for any signs of awareness. Picking up Constance's' left hand, Anne wraps it tightly in her own, before she takes over slowly trying to cool away the fever burning through her body.
Constance tosses in her unaware state, eyes moving rapidly beneath her lids, the creases in her brow telling Anne that her thoughts are anything but easy. Her mobile lips move often, forming the same shapes over and over, even as no sound escapes them.
Anne doesn't need to hear to know what she's saying though.
"He's coming," she tells her, tightening her grip on her best friend's too hot hand, "I've sent for him, Constance. Athos will send him."
Constance's only response is to mouth the word again, "D'Artagnan."
