Chapter 2: The Meeting
Athos groaned as daylight streamed through the curtain Porthos had just noisily yanked open. "Rise and shine!" Porthos prompted, striding over to Aramis and poking him enthusiastically in the ribs. Athos hauled himself reluctantly out of bed and began his morning stretches, ignoring the consequent explosion from Aramis, the scuffle as Porthos ducked a wild swipe from the half-awake marksman, and the thump as Porthos retaliated by yanking on a protruding foot and dumping Aramis on the floor in a tangle of bedding.
Last night's confrontation in the barn was uppermost on his mind and as soon as Porthos had hauled Aramis to his feet, patted him on the back and helped him restore order to his bed, Athos inquired after d'Artagnan. "He's out feeding the horses. Breakfast is ready – pain perdu*, very tasty!" Porthos had a faraway look in his eyes, no doubt wondering if he could get away with going back for a second helping.
Athos sighed, wondering how much sleep the youngster had got. They had headed back to the warmth of the fire after their talk and d'Artagnan had sat with him for an hour before heading back to his bed, but by then only an hour of Athos' watch remained and he doubted d'Artagnan would have fallen asleep straight away, if at all.
After d'Artagnan's revelation about doubting his calling as a Musketeer, Athos had talked to him about loyalty and doing the right thing regardless of who was on the throne, but he wasn't sure if his words had helped the youngster's turmoil. Particularly as he had then confided that Porthos and Aramis had been partly right, in that he was still missing Constance horribly, and was struggling to cope with being in her company all day but unable to talk to her as they used to.
Athos' attention had drifted at this point as he reflected that Aramis would be suffering similar problems being around the Queen, and he had tuned back to d'Artagnan with a guilty start when he realised the lad was now talking about his father. Athos had belatedly remembered that the attack on his father had happened during a rainstorm in an inn near Paris, and d'Artagnan had admitted that pretty much everything at the moment – the reminders of the weather and the countryside around Paris, so close to the second anniversary of his father's death; being close to Constance without being able to properly talk to her; the responsibility for the Queen; and his doubts about his chosen path – was making it impossible to think straight.
Athos thought d'Artagnan had gone to bed feeling slightly better for having talked, and he had given the youngster a rare, if brief, pat on the shoulder as they bid each other goodnight for the second time. But when he came in to announce that the horses were ready, the dark rings around d'Artagnan's eyes and his weary movements told their own story. Athos sighed, then stood to offer his arm to the Queen as she rose from her table. "Time we were going," he warned Porthos softly as the big man was eyeing up the remaining bread rolls. With a wistful backwards glance, Porthos moved off and within minutes they were mounted and back on the road.
Athos directed Aramis to ride at the rear of their party with d'Artagnan. Aramis raised an eyebrow – they rarely posted two rear-guard riders – but made no comment, and fell into place beside the silent and weary-looking Gascon.
After a mile or so of listening to birdsong Aramis was fidgeting and sighing, and eventually d'Artagnan took pity on him. "Anything you want to say?"
"Me?" Aramis sounded startled. "No, why would I?"
D'Artagnan cast him a sideways glance. "Because you've not said a word in 10 minutes and that's not like you. Something's on your mind."
"Oh, and there speaks the Gascon who's barely spoken in the last 24 hours never mind 10 minutes!"
"So you're all right then," d'Artagnan checked.
"Yes, I am. But I don't think you are." Aramis decided to be blunt, which had the added bonus of deflecting d'Artagnan's attention from his own restlessness. "Anything I can help with?"
D'Artagnan didn't respond for a moment, fiddling with his reins and adjusting his pistol in its saddle-holster. Aramis waited but when nothing seemed forthcoming, he asked softly: "Is it Constance? I've seen the way you look at her still..."
D'Artagnan's exclamation was part groan and part exasperation and he shot a dark look at Aramis. "I don't look at her in any way! You make me sound like a ... like a love-sick... it's not like that!" he finished, sounding anguished.
Aramis simply raised an eyebrow and waited. For a minute there was no sound apart from the soft pad of their horses' hooves on the grassy track, then d'Artagnan heaved a sigh.
"It's just... look, nothing's changed. She's not going to leave Bonacieux and I've accepted that. I've moved on."
Now both Aramis' eyebrows had disappeared under his hat. If this was moving on...
D'Artagnan looked at him then tried a tentative smile. "At least, I'm trying to move on. Lucy de Fois kissed me after we rescued her and the General from the Spanish prison."
Aramis hadn't seen that coming, and started to congratulate d'Artagnan, but the lad cut him off.
"It didn't work. It just didn't feel right and I stopped her. Then I turned around and Constance was standing there."
Ah. That couldn't have been a good moment. "What happened?" Aramis was almost afraid to ask.
"She... she was hurt. And I was wrong-footed." D'Artagnan heaved another sigh. "It wasn't good. She ... I told her I knew she didn't love Bonacieux, and she told me why she had to stay with him, and I told her... I said she was a coward for not being prepared to leave him and put up with the scandal..."
"Ouch!" Aramis winced. He knew few women braver than Constance and couldn't imagine how she'd taken that accusation.
"I know! She's nothing of the sort... but I ... oh god, I wish I could take it back. But she won't even look at me now. And I can't avoid her, I see her every time we have guard duty at the Palace but she's more distant than ever, and I ...miss her." He spoke the last two words so softly that Aramis almost missed them.
Until that point he'd been sympathetic, but was also comparing d'Artagnan's situation favourably to his own, where he couldn't even have an argument with the Queen let alone hope for more. But those words, spoken from the bottom of his heart, stopped his thoughts instantly.
He had already known of the lad's heartbreak in losing all hope of a future with her, but suddenly Aramis realised d'Artagnan had lost more than that when she chose to remain with Bonacieux. Constance had been d'Artagnan's only friend and confidant in the early days when he was finding his feet in the garrison, before the Inseparables had learned to trust him and love him like a brother. Long before d'Artagnan had admitted his romantic feelings for Constance, Aramis realised d'Artagnan had relied on her good sense and sisterly advice to help him through the turmoil of losing his father, turning his back on the farm, and trying to find his place in the big city. No wonder he was feeling lost now.
All the grand counsel Aramis had rehearsed to give d'Artagnan the benefit of his years of dalliance and romances with half the married women of Paris – well, most of the good-looking ones anyway – now died on his lips. He, silver-tongued, dashingly romantic hero that he was, couldn't think of a single way of comforting his young friend.
He realised he'd been silent for too long. Deciding he could only be honest, he nudged his horse sideways, leaned over to d'Artagnan and rested a hand on the lad's shoulder. "I hadn't realised how hard this has been for you. I'm sorry. I thought I could help but... Maybe you should move on. Lucy may not have been the one for you but..."
"Don't you dare!" d'Artagnan burst out, startling his mare who flung her head up and skittered sideways, dislodging Aramis' arm and momentarily unbalancing him in the saddle. They sorted themselves out, Aramis uncomfortably aware of Athos looking back quizzically at the pair of them.
"Sorry," d'Artagnan muttered once he'd settled his mare with an apologetic pat. "But if you're going to say I'll find someone else..." He trailed off.
"You might," Aramis said tentatively, ready to duck if d'Artagnan swung for him.
"I won't," d'Artagnan stated quietly. "I can't imagine loving anyone else. She's the one, Aramis."
A year ago Aramis would have snorted at the concept of there being only one love in anyone's life, especially for one as young as d'Artagnan. He had thought himself in love with Isabelle at the age of 16, but looking back he knew he had been in love with the romance of the affair, especially in the face of opposition from her family. He had mourned the loss of their unborn child but soon afterwards he had realised the narrowness of his escape, and felt nothing but relief. Since then he had been content to dally, finding endless fascination with his female companions but never feeling the need to commit to any one woman and believing he could remain detached, and therefore avoid the pain of loss if love was not reciprocated.
He knew better now, from his own recent, bitter experience. So he contented himself with another uncharacteristically naked sentiment. "I understand. Look, all I can say is that she still loves you. Any fool can see that. And you are both young – and Bonacieux is not. Who knows what fate has in store. Be patient, and don't turn your back on her even if it hurts. If you miss her friendship, you can be sure that she misses you just as much. Just be there for her when you can. And leave the rest to God, or the fates, whatever you believe in."
D'Artagnan was silent, digesting this. Then he drew a long, quivering breath deep into his lungs, and nodded. Aramis was right. He could still support her and befriend her. He would champion her and look out for her. Even if it didn't change her decision, he would still feel close to her. He made a silent vow to do all he could to stop anyone or anything from hurting her.
Aramis grinned at the determination that was written all over d'Artagnan's features, and hoped he wouldn't regret setting the Gascon on a new path of pain, if Constance really didn't love the lad. After his own years of simply enjoying the chase, staying detached and in control, he was suddenly learning for himself just how painful love can be. He knew there was no hope for his relationship with the Queen, but maybe, just maybe, his young Gascon friend could find a way to be happy with Constance. He made a vow to himself to do all he could to help, unaware how closely his thoughts mirrored those of the Gascon right then.
The morning's ride was short, and within a couple of hours they had arrived at the hostelry in Bellême where the meeting was to take place. It was a large, rambling structure, and the many interconnecting rooms and possibilities for concealment and ambush gave Athos a headache as he coordinated their search of the premises. In the end he chose an upper room on the east of the building for their meeting room; it had only one internal door leading to the landing and the staircase down to the common room leading off the main entrance, where he posted Porthos, and an external staircase and wooden balcony running the length of its front wall, where he stationed d'Artagnan. He placed Aramis in the yard where a track led back up to the main Paris road, and he waited in the room with the two ladies until, close to the appointed time, a plain carriage accompanied by four armed riders turned off the road and down towards the hostelry.
As planned, Aramis walked out to greet the occupants of the carriageway, smiling amiably even as he subtly drew attention to the pistol at his hip, and flourished a hand at the hostelry behind where d'Artagnan was watching alertly from the balcony, and Porthos could be seen filling the main doorway with his broad shoulders. They weren't expecting trouble, but it never did any harm to make sure they were taken seriously.
Watching from the top of the external staircase, however, Athos frowned as the carriage door swung open and two well-dressed men stepped out. Behind him he heard a soft exclamation from the Queen as she looked eagerly over his shoulder. "Hernán! Hernáncito!" The taller of the two courtiers looked up and waved a greeting, then strode past a bemused-looking Aramis and headed for the staircase up to the balcony. Aramis and d'Artagnan both shot questioning looks to Athos, who was already turning to the Queen. "My lady?" he queried.
"That's my cousin Hernán," she beamed.
"But we were expecting your cousin Gabriela - your 18-year-old, female cousin..." Athos said, urgently, as the two Spaniards neared the top of the stairs.
"I'm sorry I misled you, but I couldn't risk the King knowing my true intentions," she explained hastily, then swept forward with both hands outstretched to greet her handsome cousin.
d'Artagnan leaned on the wooden railing of the balcony and listened to the voices that drifted out through the thin glass of the window behind him, stifling a yawn as his total lack of sleep, and the gentle warmth of the sun now it had burned off the early morning dampness, started to catch up with him. The yard was becoming busier as it neared noon, with travellers arriving to rest and eat, and carts delivering vegetables and other provisions coming and going.
Through the bustle the visitors' carriage was guarded by two of the attendants who remained alert even after an hour. The other two had accompanied the Queen's cousin and his companion – advisor? Footman? D'Artagnan didn't know. He had no idea why the Queen had lied about who she was meeting and felt unnerved and restless in spite of his exhaustion. He caught Aramis' eye; the marksman was currently standing with one foot propped onto a log pile near the stables where he had a good view of all the movements. Aramis grimaced and d'Artagnan knew he felt equally uneasy. He just hoped it was worth deceiving the King.
Just then he noticed the sound of raised voices from within the meeting room. He gave Aramis and Porthos a quick warning whistle, putting a precautionary hand on his pistol and moving soundlessly towards the window.
"This is ridiculous!" he heard the Queen proclaim firmly.
Frustratingly his position at the side of the window meant he couldn't see any of the room's occupants but it sounded as if she was standing to the left of the window. Either the cousins were having a family tiff, or something was very wrong. He drew his pistol, checked it was primed, and shrugged at Porthos who had stepped out of the taproom into the yard and was looking up enquiringly.
"Unhand her, sir." Athos' voice was chilling, and d'Artagnan knew immediately that things had gone beyond simple negotiations. A voice he didn't recognise snarled back to 'mind his own business', and then there was the sound of a scuffle and a cry - of pain? - from one of the women.
Without further thought, d'Artagnan took two rapid steps back to the edge of the balcony, then one running step forward and hurled himself headlong through the window, arms protecting his face. As he crashed through he had a blurred impression of startled faces turned his way but before he had a chance to work out who was where, all hell had broken loose.
a/n:
*pain perdu is the French name for French toast (eggy bread), using up stale bread soaked in an eggs/milk/cinnamon mixture and fried. Apparently it was around in the 17th century and I figured it would be a cheap breakfast for our boys.
Sorry this one's a bit shorter but the next chapter is nearly ready and will be up tomorrow, when things really begin to hot up.
Forgot to say, this is unbeta'd so please let me know what you think, like, dislike - I would be very happy to have your feedback!