The first week or so with my new master is still very hazy. I came down with a violent fever that first evening and it was thought that I would not see the dawn's light. I remember his large hands, so rough against my scalding skin, laying cool wet cloth on my brow. I was forced to drink water when all I wanted to do was sleep, despite suffering from a raging thirst which had made me beg for the drink in the first place. I learned later that whilst I was ill he took a leave of absence from his duties and refused to let a physician see to me, allowing only Pretty Eyes and the nice woman into his home. He got into trouble on my behalf and I wasn't able to appreciate his concern until much later. Thankfully, my fever broke before my body and I woke one morning to find myself in his bed with him slumped in a chair beside me. I reached out and touched his hand; he leapt awake and gave me such a look of relief that I felt guilty for becoming ill in the first place. He sat and supported me as I drank a few mouthfuls of water and then became my pillow when I promptly went back to sleep. When I awoke again, I was alone.
Her back healed well and it was not long before Aramis decided that he needed to unpick his delicate needlework before her body could turn its attention to the sewing which held it together. That afternoon, as light streamed into bedchamber, he and Porthos plied the young woman with enough wine to dull the pain, and she leant into Porthos' arms, her head on his shoulder, whilst Aramis snipped threads and carefully teased them from her skin. She alternated between drunken giggling – the situation was not particularly amusing in Porthos' view – and quiet whimpering. When the last stitch had been removed they gave her water and bread to combat the alcohol and left her alone to recover with a measure of dignity. As Porthos turned to go, she reached out and squeezed his hand with a smile. Aramis noted the returned smile as well as the swift tightening of his fingers and discretely averted his eyes as he gathered his surgeon pack.
When they were both sitting once more at Porthos' table Aamis asked whether there was anything going on, for which he received a glower. "That girl is my responsibility until she understands that I bought her freedom and not her service and I will take great offense if you are implying that I might take advantage". Aramis held up both palms in surrender.
"I mean no offence, my friend. I understand why you are aiding her – the business with Bonnaire has reminded you of all that you wished forgotten and then a pretty young slave runs into us… Yes Porthos, I feel protective of her as well, and that is why I ask." They sat in contemplative silence for a few minutes until they heard quiet movements from the bedchamber above them. Aramis knocked back the drink before him and made to leave.
"She will need to know our language if she is to understand that she is no longer an owned slave, Aramis, and her letters too. Would you teach her? You can at least get her to talk to you."
"I would be honoured. We shall start tomorrow", and with that the younger man bowed his farewell and left.
Days turned to weeks and Pretty Eyes (yes, I knew his name was Aramis but I felt the nickname better suited him) taught me his language. We established that I had grown up speaking my native tongue and Dutch, from the first plantation I had been sold too. I was transported back to Europe by the Spanish (though I did not tell him why) from where I had picked up a smattering of both violent promises and sailor curses, much to his amusement and knew nothing of French. The lessons were hard and often went late into the night. More than once I fell asleep at the table and master Porthos would carry me up to his bed before leaving to sleep downstairs. That also confused me – now that my back was healed well enough I should have been the one sleeping in the chair beside the fire. The bed made me uncomfortable, and I would often leave it to curl up in a blanket on the floor.
We had all learnt the lesson that my stomach could not handle rich fare and so my diet consisted of bread, fruit and broths and plenty of all three. Madam Constance would occasionally visit with pastries for me to try, and under the ministrations of my three friends my frame filled out and I blossomed to health once more. Still I refused to wear skirts, preferring shirts and trousers with high boots, and with my more womanly figure I fear that I somewhat scandalised poor Madam Constance whilst also amusing master Porthos. My ankles healed to new pink skin and between my lessons I did what little work I could around the rather sparse rooms, washed M Porthos' clothes and cleaned his boots each night. The only things he did not allow me to touch were the many weapons he kept. I think he was worried that I might hurt someone by accident.
Porthos had been wracked with guilt when she started working in his apartments. It had started out with simple enough tasks such as fetching water from the nearest well, and laying fresh fires during the day but as her strength returned they expanded to washing and polishing and scrubbing the floors until they shone. He'd tried to stop her, to explain that she didn't have to work for him, but she had simply looked at him with her head cocked on one side before dazzling him with a wide grin and carrying on as if he hadn't spoken.
It was Constance who came up with a way to assuage his shame. Every week Porthos gave the kind woman a living wage to hold for the young woman, to be kept until such a time as she understood her freedom and wanted to leave, or to support her if he did not return from a mission. Mm Bonacieux had agreed to watch over her in case of his non-return, to find her good employment and – preferably – continue the poor woman's education. It was a morbid contingency plan, but Porthos felt more at ease with it in place.
One wet evening he came home from patrol to find Aramis and his pretty…houseguest…laughing. As he dripped on the floor and looked bemused, she hurried to his side and took his hat and cloak to hang by the small fire. "So Aramis, do you care to spread the jest?" The younger man waved his wine glass at him to sit and dry out, noting with a wry smile that his dark friend once more held a lingering gaze for the young woman setting an evening repast before him.
"Our lovely friend here has skills we did not realise, Porthos. She came to find me as I was running late for our lessons. Not only does she have an astonishing courage to wander a rather large and intimidating city by herself, but she is an unrivalled tracker, having honed her abilities on"
"Chickens, sir," the young woman interjected, and Porthos nearly choked on his dinner. It was the first time he had heard her speak outside of her lessons and now, as then, her voice seemed to caress its way into her brain and run a delicate shiver down his spine. His minuscule reactions were once more noted by the quick-eyed Aramis (who was still unsure whether this sort of thing should be encouraged but was willing to see how it played out). "Chickens run around and get themselves into trouble, but you still have to get them all back to the coop by nightfall," the young woman went on to explain. "A man is simply an over-sized chicken." Aramis doubled over in mirth and slapped his thigh in delight whilst Porthos snorted into a bite of bread.
"I've never heard a Musketeer compared to a chicken before without a duel challenge being issued immediately afterwards".
Life continued in a more amiable environment after that. Master Porthos – it was going to take time for me to view the man who had freed me from slavery in any other way – seemed at greater ease with himself once he knew I understood that I was free. He questioned once, deep into his cups, why I had not left; thankfully he was already half asleep so I simply helped him to his bed and did not have to answer. How was I to explain to this man that although he did not own me in terms of money, he did own my life? My service was a poor repayment but the only way I had. When Mm Constance had handed me a purse of coins and told me they were my wages, I spent them on new bed linens, soft shirts and good food and wine for master Porthos. I kept only enough that my own appearance would not disgrace him.
It was shortly after the Chicken Conversation, as M. Aramis insisted on calling it, that I noticed a man following me when I was at the market for fresh bread one morning. Curious glances were common – I was a woman in men's clothing, after all – but this did not feel like idle curiosity and I admit that it scared me. I finished my business and hurried home, barring the door until master Porthos was due back from his patrol. I did not mention my experience to him, for he was tired and hot from wearing his armour in the rising warmth of the season, and I wished him to rest.
A week later, when the door was broken in and three men rushed at me, I really wished I had burdened him with my troubles.