Disclaimer: I do not own The Musketeers or the plots of the episodes. I do own, however, my OC Juliette and the plot surrounding her.


1. Paris


1638. Juliette was pacing into one of the many crowded avenues in the capital, her brown dress matted by a thin cover of mud on the blue hem. At her arm, she was carrying a basket she was impatient to fill.

It had been a full year now that she had moved from her little quiet place of Bayeux, and she still wasn't used to the hundreds of people filling each and every street of this smelly part of town. But then again, she hadn't exactly left willingly, so she would not be expected to like it soon.

Her red hair was plaited behind her, bouncing heavily on her back as she sauntered aside when a horse passed her. On top of it was a Red Guard, who she did not know and didn't care to. The only thing that mattered was that he ignored her existence. That's how she'd be the safest. Away from trouble.

Trouble had had a way of following her every move since her husband passed away all those years prior. But she'd be damned if she talked about it to anyone.

When she had filled her basket with various goods – bread, cheese, fruits, and some meat to last the week – Juliette made her way towards her 'home', if it could be called that at all.

The little one-storey-high house stood in a relatively safe neighbourhood, perhaps because of its proximity to the Musketeer's garrison and the fact that one of them lived in the same street.

Sometimes, Juliette saw the man people called Athos, the leader of a small group of Musketeers who had the reputation of a drunk. She never stared for too long, uneasy with the sight of a man in such a state.

But she knew one of his friends much better.

More often than not, when she saw them in the light of day, the tall dark-haired Musketeer called Aramis walked up to her and offered her a token for her beauty – usually, a flower. He had been trying to woo her ever since she had arrived and, if it had slowed down in the last few months, it had not stopped. They had sometimes started a conversation of some sort, and if he was incredibly handsome and as incredibly sure of himself, Aramis also proved to be a kind man as clever as he was gentle.

When he had learnt, a little more than a month after her arrival, that she was a widow, he had apologized to her for his lack of propriety. She had laughed and shooed him away. She had been widowed for six years by then; her days of mourning were far behind her.


As she pushed the door to her humble house, Juliette thought once again that she could be far worse. She had a roof over her head, a job – she was helping the local seamstresses – and enough money to put food in her own belly. She had nothing to want for.

Except the man she had married and whom she still missed awfully.

Her eyes fell to a glint of silver and she cursed, replacing the cloth over the blade before her darling neighbour Jeanine could enter unannounced and discover her secret.

For, if Juliette Durieux looked like a harmless housewife, she was far from being one.

Her husband's death had made sure of it.

She had left the sword there after her last midnight stroll, and had forgotten to put it back under the loose floorboard in her bedroom. A mistake she could have paid bitterly.

At night, Juliette was no more this innocent woman men tipped their hats to. She was no longer this poor soul other women whispered about when they thought she could not hear. "Twenty-seven, widowed and without a suitor? Poor darling. She'll die alone, no doubt!" Of course, these were the less harsh comments she could hear. Sometimes, she heard older women – who were bitter with their own unhappiness – say that, if she didn't find coin enough without a husband, she'd end up in a brothel. At that, Juliette was usually standing up and leaving the room, seething. How dare they!


The sun set, and with it, the streets died out. Women and children stayed in the cover of their houses, safe next to a good fire or huddled up together under the covers, while men strolled down to taverns and played cards or drunk until the sun rose again in the morning.

Juliette waited for the night to be effectively complete, and blessed the skies that this was a moon-less night. She walked to her bedroom and took off her dress and corset. Fresh white bindings waited for her on the bed, and she swiftly wrapped them around her chest, hiding her breasts. She remembered a time when such a thing could not be managed without help – and if people knew who helped her in times like this, they'd go pray at once for her immortal soul – but years of practise made it now a natural thing to do. A set of loose leather breeches followed, as well as a dark-red belt on which hung her scabbard and a hidden dagger. When her dark shirt and dark red jacket where in place, she glanced at the hat.

The basin beside her bed was black, conveniently hiding the traces of the dye she put on her hair every night to conceal their natural colour. She did not know of anyone else who had red hair like hers, and she'd be damned to Hell and back if anyone found out about her double identity.

When she was all ready – boots on her feet and sword at her hip – Juliette hid the length of her hair into her hat, and placed a mask over her face. The leather rounded her eyes, a cloth of silk descending on her nose and mouth to hide their definitely feminine features. And then, she exited her flat, using the back door to get into the empty street.

Her proximity with the garrison made her feel extremely safe when she strolled like this at night. No one would ever know a criminal – as some called her – lived so close to the King's men, and she was as safe as could be from their prying eyes.

The distinctive sound of men coming out of a local bar had her hide in the shadows of a side-street. She smirked under her mask as she recognized the three figures: Athos, surely brought home after one more night of drinking, and two of his brothers, whose name she did not know. She let them pass, wondering briefly why Aramis was not with them, before lurking out of her hiding place and setting out into the night.

Her usual victims were always the same: Red Guards, or as equally infuriating petty criminals. She walked close to the worst taverns in the lower city, and helped the local wenches who invariably got cornered in dark alleys. To her, it was less a matter of defending damsels in distress than clean the city of its dirtiest scum. Back in Bayeux, she hadn't had much to go on – it was a small and quiet town, after all – but since she had moved to Paris, there was plenty of preys to feed on.

Her sword was much more used to defend herself and to parry the drunken men's blows than to actually draw blood. No, that was a work for her dagger, hidden safely in her belt. She could proudly say that she had never killed anyone, merely wounded or nicked some particularly rude man's neck. Their blood and cry of pain was a reward great enough to sate her. And when she managed to make her victims leave town, it was all the better.

More than once, she thought her cover had been discovered when her mask was either torn away from her face or moved by the wind, but always, those men, inebriated and otherwise misogynists, did not see the woman behind the person attacking them.

She had gained the nickname 'Nightwatchman' but did not like it. She did not either like the way the Musketeers talked about 'him' in the light of day. 'Murderer.' 'Thief.' 'Criminal.' She wanted nothing more than to prove them wrong. But knew that, if she was discovered, the gallows would only be the sweetest part of her demise. Such was the way women like her were treated in the capital. In her home-city, she could have perhaps hoped for a fair trial, but here, no. But if she was honest with herself, she liked the thrill of danger.

That night, she didn't have much to prey on. Merely two drunken Red Guards whose purse she quietly cut in the darkness of the street as they loudly sang a crude song on their way home. Those coins would make a fine blanket of wool for Jeanine's youngest babe.


Dawn arose, and Juliette got back home.

She had, once again, to hide in the shadows as yet another figure exited her neighbour's house. So Aramis had spent the night at Athos , after all...

The handsome Musketeer looked spent, tired, almost sad, as he unknowingly passed her on his way back to the garrison. What had happened to make him feel this way? She did not know, and did not want to. She liked his persona and his conversation, but she did not want to be close enough to actually care. Those days were gone.

She had only enough time to change into her normal clothes and to wash the dye off her hair – wishing the black had effectively wore off – before Jeanine burst into her kitchen, panting and waving a hand in the air in the manner of someone who had a great news to share.

Juliette looked upon her friend with worry. "Jeanine? Are you alright? Why have you been running?"

"There's been...news...from the...palace..." she took a breath, then two, "the...the Cardinal is...dead!"