The letter seemed innocuous enough, when it arrived outside her door. A servant brought it in, dipping into a curtsey before placing it in the Queen's hands and taking his leave.
Anne raised a brow, for usually her letters arrived in bulk, and, though the letter claimed to be from a cousin in Austria, the parchment was of the particular German thickness that her letters from her father always used to come in, which gave her pause.
Ever since the...incident, with her brother the King of Spain, the King and the Cardinal had not allowed her any mail from her relatives that they had not already read, and did not allow her to send any out, or, if they did, it was scrutinized very carefully by the Cardinal before it was allowed to enter a messenger's hands. She was surprised the letter had made it to her alone at all, for the Cardinal was a busy man and often left her letters for reading at a far later date than they had arrived, unless it had never reached the Cardinal.
Or unless this was a test from him, after she had called him out on his appropriation of Ninon's inheritance for his own uses, even if he did have a right to them now that the poor woman was dead.
Suspicious now, Anne turned the letter over in her hand, noting the Austrian seal adorning the back of it. Was this a test of some sort by the Cardinal? To see if she was truly as loyal to France as she claimed to be?
He was always attempting such things, the conniving man, in the hopes of gaining even more control over the French monarchs. And she knew that, should she fail it, he would make no secret of such a thing to the King.
Her husband was a merciful man to the worst of men, but his own brother sat in exile in Orleans because he had committed treason against his king. His mother was still hiding away, cast out and threatened with execution if she ever returned.
Anne harbored no hopes that his treatment of her would be any different, especially when she had yet to even give him a child.
She called the servant back. "Where did this letter come from?" she demanded, noticing the way that the servant tensed at the question, not quite meeting her eyes.
He was not her normal messenger, she noticed, for that was a boy far younger, and this was a man of at least four and thirty. She had never seen him before, and that rather worried her, for she did not think it was on accident.
"It was...just delivered, Your Majesty, by a young woman claiming to have traveled from Austria and having been asked to carry it along with her."
Anne's eyes narrowed. "And who was this woman?"
The servant shrugged, looking almost uncomfortable now, but not so much as Anne would have expected him to be if he knew that the letter was something more than it claimed to be.
"She claimed only to be a villager who was stopped by palace officials on her way through Vienna, Your Majesty. If you like, I could send the palace guards to track her down?"
Anne shook her head, turning the letter over again in her hands. "No. Did anyone besides you see the letter delivered?"
"No, Your Majesty, it came very early," the servant informed her.
Anne nodded. "That will be all, thank you."
The servant gave another bow, and hurried out then, perhaps before he could be dragged back for any other meaningless tasks.
Anne stared at the letter for a long moment, and then stuffed it into a drawer, and endeavored not to think of it again. She could not, after all. She had promised her husband she would not.
And yet, the letter seemed to haunt her as her ladies stepped into the room, preparing her for a meal with His Majesty. At one point, Lady Caroline opened the drawer, and Anne froze, terror budding up inside of her, that she had not hid it better, but Lady Caroline only reached inside for the brush, not looking at where her hands were going, and closed the drawer again.
Anne sighed with relief.
She didn't know if Caroline had seen the letter or not, but she knew that, out of all of her ladies, Caroline was the one that Anne could truly consider a friend, and so it didn't matter.
"The Lady Mariana requested an audience with Your Majesty this morning," Catarina, one of her ladies, murmured as she picked out a few of the jewels sitting on Anne's nightstand, one of them the white pearls that had been a gift from her father, before his untimely death.
They were beautiful, and priceless to her, and she glanced at Catarina, raising a brow.
"The Lady Mariana is a cousin of the King," she explained. "She's traveled from Chambord."
Anne sighed, wiping at her forehead. "Of course."
Catarina moved forward, the pearls held out to wrap around Anne's neck, and Anne stared at them for a long moment before lifting her hand. "No. Not the pearls."
"His Majesty requested them," Catarina explained patiently, still moving forward.
Anne didn't flinch. "The diamonds. His Majesty appreciates those better, anyway."
Catarina hesitated, and then nodded. "Of course, Your Majesty."
The pearls had been a gift on her birthday, a few years ago. From her father, before he had fallen ill. She could remember that day all too clearly, even if Louis did not, for it had not been the biggest event of that day by far.
She'd woken up, still excited about the prospect of her birthday, for, even though Marie de Medici made it her personal mission to ensure that Anne did not enjoy her time at French Court, as though Anne had had any more say in the marriage than Marie had, (Anne was quite sure that Marie would have been quite content to never have her son marry at all, if he had not been betrothed before her husband had died,) she still believed that her birthday was the one day when the Queen Mother would leave her in peace to celebrate.
She had been so, so wrong.
She had woken up on the morning of her birthday to her ladies gushing over the many gifts that had been sent to her, by French nobles wanting to get in with their new queen and by foreign dignitaries alike, including her father's pearls.
She had clutched the pearls to her chest and felt tears prick at her eyes, for they had once belonged to her mother and she knew that she would treasure them more than anything else she received that day. She bade one of her ladies to put them on at once, and wore them for the rest of the day.
Nothing from her husband, save for a per functionary note and a rose, and the note not even in his own hand, but then, Anne had not been expecting much else, and so she was not terribly disappointed.
She went out to give alms to the poor that day, as she always had on her birthday, regardless of her guards' protests that to do so was far too dangerous, and that Marie would not like it.
Perhaps that only spurred her on all the more. If emptying the palace treasuries in an attempt to help the poor of France, as her mother had often done in Spain, could garner her some satisfaction against the woman, then she would take what she could get.
The feast held in her honor when she returned from giving alms had been a surprise, if only because Anne had not thought that the Spanish-hating French would not go to the trouble, and had seen no sign of the hustle and bustle that such an event should have caused. Her husband gave a great speech for her, his beloved wife, and Anne struggled to keep her face impassive through it, to smile up at him at the end of it, as though she thought he meant the words he'd said.
And she drank.
Her father had not allowed her to drink, back when she still lived in Spain, for she was far too young, according to him, but she found that, despite what other inhibitions Marie had placed on her since coming to French Court, that had not been one of them.
She did not drink more than would have been deemed appropriate, for she was all too aware of the many eyes on her throughout the feast, but enough to make her head buzz pleasantly when she danced with her husband and eventually took her leave of the merriment, sometime around midnight.
All in all, a very satisfying birthday it had been, indeed.
She went back to her chambers escorted by her ladies, nodding to the two guards standing outside of her rooms before going inside, and perhaps she might have paid a bit more attention to their faces when she did so, but she did not.
Instead, she focused on readying herself for bed after a long day, telling Charlotte to prepare a bath for her and slipping out of her stiff clothes as Charlotte did so, with Caroline's help.
She lovingly laid the pearls on the mantle beside her bed and then moved beneath the warm waters of her bath with a contented sigh, allowing Caroline to undo her hair from its silver clasps. It tumbled free over her shoulders, and Caroline set to work on the arduous task of brushing it out as Charlotte got together her nightclothes.
She did not know how long she sat in the water, feeling the gentle buzz in her head turn to something more drowsy, more...dizzying. At first, she thought it only to be the mix of exhaustion and wine, but then, when she went to take another breath, her throat constricted, and she found herself unable to do so.
Eyes widening in alarm, Anne stumbled from the bath, ignoring the towel that her ladies held out for her and clutching at her throat, her eyes tightening in pain.
She glanced up, meeting Caroline's eyes, and it was then that the girl seemed to realize that something was very, very wrong.
"Your Majesty!" she cried out, and then, a moment later, "She's choking!"
"I shall very likely make two thousand livre off the Cardinal soon," Louis said, smirking at her over his morning meal, his excited grin almost infectious.
Anne lifted a brow at that, relieved that he seemed pleased and did not seem to still be angered over her refusal to wear the pearls the day before. The Lady Mariana had already returned to Paris, and her request had not been overly taxing, for the King was in good enough spirits to be making bets with the Cardinal, it seemed.
Anne, by contrast, had been in poor ones, for where the pearls Louis had asked her to wear had once evoked happy memories of her father, they had been forever stained by the time that Marie de Medici had attempted to poison her on her own birthday, by the knowledge that Louis had believed his mother incapable of such a thing, at the time, and had promptly forgotten about the event by the time he had banished his mother.
"Whatever for?" She could not imagine the Cardinal parting with anything of his easily, especially not two thousand livre.
Louis' smile widened. "The Cardinal has bet me that any one of his men might defeat any one of Treville's Musketeers. I told him that it was impossible, and there is to be a tournament to figure out the truth. I have much faith in my musketeers."
"A tournament?" Anne repeated, with some surprise, her breakfast forgotten. They had not had a tournament in Paris in...some time. The last had been on her husband's name day, several years ago. "Are you sure that's wise, Your Majesty? What if there is some sort of...attack?"
The Huguenots, convinced that if they killed their Catholic King they would have the throne, had attacked during that particular tournament, and, though none of the King's men had been killed, many Huguenots had been, then and the next morning, when they were hanged for treason. Her husband had not wanted to have another tournament since, worried that such a thing would happen again.
Louis laughed at her concern, as he usually did these days, it seemed. "Then all of my best and loyal soldiers will have the opportunity to prove themselves to me by taking care of it, my dear. Now, try not to look so very worried. It is only a harmless bet, after all."
"A bet," Anne said, quietly.
Louis smirked. "Between the Cardinal and Treville. They both seem to think that their men are the best. One of each, of course, will prove themselves to be so."
Anne's lips twitched. "Then I shall like to make a bet with you, Your Majesty. I do believe Treville's musketeers are the finest soldiers of all of France, and I doubt the Cardinal's men shall be able to even attempt to beat them."
Louis raised an eyebrow. "Ah, my wife, making such risky statements. Very well. I shall take your bet. And what shall be the collateral?"
Anne thought for a moment. "Money would be worthless," she said finally. "Perhaps..." and then she leaned forward, whispering something in his ear that made him blush down to the roots of his hair, before he nodded.
"You...drive a hard bargain, my wife," he said finally, sounding a little breathless, and she wondered if that was due to excitement, though she doubted it. He cleared his throat. "I shall take you up on it nonetheless."
Anne smiled. "I never doubted you, Your Majesty."
He nodded. "Yes. Well." He cleared his throat. "I do not think I have much to fear. The Musketeers are fine soldiers, but the Cardinal drives his men far harder, and they would die before they disappointed him."
Anne lifted her shoulders in something like a shrug. "We shall have to see."
Louis' lips twitched. "I like this new side of you, wife. Where does it come from?"
Anne smirked. "I do believe your recklessness is beginning to affect me, Your Majesty," she teased, and Louis laughed at her words.
"What would you say to a trip into the city? We haven't...since that attack of our carriage, and I do believe our people must be missing us."
Anne blinked in surprise. It was usually she who had to suggest such things, especially after an attack, for if they spent too long holed up in their palace the people might grow to rebellion, but she was pleasantly surprised that Louis had done so. She knew that the people needed to see their king, now more than ever, as Sastini had returned to the Vatican, supposedly, and his witch hunting days in Paris were done.
"That sounds lovely, Your Majesty," she told him, and he nodded, clearing his throat a little.
"Well then. Shall we go?"
She nodded. "Of course. I have no pressing concerns."
Louis nodded, clapped his hands for a servant, and ordered the man to prepare a carriage and a royal guard.
Of course, it was not so quick as all of that, for the movements of royalty must be calculated ahead of time with much effort, and the King and Queen did not actually leave the palace until well into the afternoon, the news of their sojourn spreading throughout the city like wildfire. A crowd had turned up to follow the procession throughout the streets of Paris, as Anne had known it would, and yet, as she climbed into the carriage to sit beside her husband, she felt a spark of nervousness, remembering the last time that they had attempted something like this.
No doubt the common people of Paris had already forgotten about the girl who had nearly killed herself in an attempt to bring the Queen a message, but the Queen had not, and she shuddered at the thought of what could have happened that day, at the thought that it could just as easily be repeated today.
Still, she had already told His Majesty that she would do this with him, and to change her mind now would only destroy his mood, something that Anne was certainly loathe to do.
Louis prattled on as they rode, and Anne made a concentrated effort to listen to him and interject when she felt it necessary, but in truth, her thoughts were not on his words, just as her eyes remained on the crowd as they rode past.
And then, her nightmares came to life.
A little boy came running out of the crowd, and though he was not carrying a missive with him, he seemed headed directly toward the carriage with a determination that caused Anne's throat to catch in alarm, and she found herself glancing around wildly for her musketeer to rush out and stop the boy.
No one did.
The little boy fell to the ground before the carriage, and Anne cried out, the carriage this time coming to an abrupt halt before it could take another life, as it had the last time.
She was beginning to understand why her husband usually so disliked going out amongst the people, at this rate.
When Anne was a little girl, her brothers had meant the world to her. Philip had been the oldest son, younger than she and still heir to the throne, and as such he had responsibilities that the rest of them had not, and so she had not been able to spend as much time with him as she would have liked, or as she had with her other siblings, but he had managed to spend as much time with her as he could, anyway.
Philip, she, and Charles had been inseparable from almost the moment Charles was born, all of them sharing a love for mischief that could never quite be suppressed by their nanny, despite their age differences.
And their father, doting as he was, had never discouraged their mischief, preferring instead to find it amusing, while their mother's horror at her unladylike first child's behavior.
Eventually, of course, it was decided that, as a potential princess or queen, Anne would have to start learning how to act like a proper princess, and so Anne had done the logical thing and run away.
She'd taken Philip and Charles with her.
Really, it had been Philip's idea, when she had confessed to him how much the idea sounded horrible to her, not wanting to spend her days in an old dusty room learning crochet and gossiping when she could be doing something much more fun, and he'd mentioned that they ought to run away, like the character in the book she'd been reading to her brothers at night, which she'd stolen from the palace library, and so they had.
They hadn't gotten very far, of course.
The King loved his children dearly, and knew mere moments after they were gone that something was wrong, when their tutors and servants and nannies could not account for them. He sent out his honor guard immediately, and found them in the forest near the castle within the hour, and gave them all such a long lecture over their deed that none of them bothered to run away again, but not before kissing their heads and demanding to know that they were all well, and then treating them to a goodly supper.
And then he'd told them that Anne would have to marry anyway, but that they would always still be siblings, always be his beloved children, and that he did not doubt that Anne would be able to find adventure, even in France.
Charles had been staring up at their father through it all with the same expression of surprised adoration that she now saw on the little vagrant's face as he stared up at what Anne assumed was his own father, and her smile softened at the sight.
Sweet Charles, who'd clung to her like a limpet on the day that she was sent off to wed Louis. She had not thought of him in some time, but then, she supposed, she had put most thoughts of Spain from her mind, as was her duty, ever since it had become treason to communicate with her brothers.
It was easier, that way, not to miss them, and she supposed that she was only thinking of her younger brother now because of that damnable letter.
"Anne," her husband said, sounding as though it was not the first time in the last few minutes.
She realized that the little boy and his father were no doubt far behind them, by now.
Anne glanced up, flushing. "My apologies, Your Majesty. I found myself lost in thought."
He gave her a long look, and Anne blushed all the more when she realized that she had been staring at her musketeer, the one she had resolved not to think about any longer, Aramis, who rode just outside their carriage. She had not even realized that she had been doing so.
"See that it does not happen again, my Anne. I was speaking of important matters."
Anne swallowed, and hoped that her blush could be mistaken as embarrassment for not hearing what he had been saying. Somehow, she doubted that Louis had noticed her staring. "Of course, Your Majesty. It won't happen again."
"Well gentlemen, may the best man amongst us win," Aramis smirked, pouring Porthos' wine as they sat around a table at the garrison.
"Those of us who are allowed to compete," D'Artagnan muttered, from where he sat on the steps behind them, thoroughly dejected after being informed this morning that he was not among that number, not very long at all after the competition itself was announced.
"You're a musketeer in all but name," Athos pronounced then, "All you lack is the King's commission."
His tone made it clear what he thought about D'Artagnan's sulking over a tournament; Porthos doubted that, had Athos been met with the same news, he would have batted an eye.
Aramis, ever the optimist, somehow managed to smile encouragingly at D'Artagnan while also giving Athos a dirty look. "Go to Treville. Ask him."
"There is just the thorny issue of the entry fee," Porthos pointed out with a slight grimace as the thought occured to him that perhaps there was more about this tournament to be dejected about, glancing at the others. "Anyone got it?"
Aramis sighed, though he didn't appear too concerned. "My pockets are empty, and the cupboard is bare."
"Yeah, just pawned my cupboard," Porthos muttered resentfully, ignoring the snort that Aramis gave to this. He had seen Aramis do the same with the items he owned that he deemed not intrinsically necessary, which included the clothes on his back but not his muskets or his boots.
"Porthos, my friend, I think it's time for us to go fishing. For a patroness," Aramis said, jostling Porthos' arm, and Porthos shot him a grin, having noticed that the other man's recent strange mood had vanished with the exciting news of a tournament. And, for what it was worth, he was glad, even if it meant allowing Aramis to parade him into another attempt to swindle money from a lover that Aramis would pester him about seeing, for the lady's sake, again, long after the tournament was over.
"Needs must."
But he trusted Aramis' judgment, at least when it came to finding sponsors, if not the ladies themselves, and so he went along with it, as he always did.
Besides, he needed that entry fee as much as Aramis did. He really had pawned his cupboard, after all.
Aramis, apparently done sitting around now that the idea had occured to him, as was often the case with Aramis, dragged him out of the barracks with a light smirk, swinging his musket - not his lucky one, Porthos noted - over his shoulder and whistling lowly as they walked.
Porthos rolled his eyes fondly. "Where are we going, then?"
Aramis' smirk only grew. "To the only place one can find beautiful, wealthy patronesses," he told his companion. "To church."
Porthos groaned.
"Look at it this way," Aramis said, clearly taking far too much amusement out of his friend's suffering. "We will more easily find wealthy patronesses there than anywhere else, and we can ask God's forgiveness soon after." He gave Porthos a cursory glance. "If necessary."
"Oi!"
Aramis laughed. "Besides, I haven't been to mass in a while. Might do me some good." Another pointed look. "Might do you some good, as well."
Porthos just sighed.
The subject of religion was an...interesting subject, amongst the three of them, and one that was not normally broached by anyone save Aramis, and then usually only when he was feeling guilty about something or was particularly drunk. Athos had no need for a god that had allowed him the past he'd had, Porthos could not be compelled to think too seriously on the matter at all, and yet Aramis, for all of his airs, seemed to find genuine comfort in Christ, when it was needed.
Porthos tended to avoid any in depth discussions on the matter of religion, because he knew how important that comfort was to Aramis.
He went to mass when he was not on a mission for the Crown, and had sometimes spoke of retiring from the Musketeers, some time in the distant future, to become a monk, not discouraged at all when his brotherhood had found this thought rather humorous, but then, that was just like Aramis.
And sometimes, he asked Porthos and Athos to go with him. Athos had never gone. Porthos did, sometimes, though hardly with the regularity of his friend, and the one time that Aramis had managed to drag D'Artagnan into a mass, the poor boy had looked like a startled stag throughout the service, before proclaiming that masses in Gascony's small parish were hardly so...condemning.
Aramis had found that amusing, of course, but hadn't forced the pup to come again.
"This is a wake," Porthos said incredulously as they stepped through the doorway of the church which was Aramis' customary place of prayer and finding wealthy woman, and Aramis doffed his hat to the hanging figure of the Holy Virgin before moving to find himself a seat.
"The best time to find a beautiful, single woman," Aramis said agreeably, and got a glare for his troubles. His lips quirked. "If it so offends you, I'm sure there are any number of wealthy, respectable young ladies in the taverns who might make you a better offer?"
Porthos grumbled goodnaturedly under his breath, but sat down beside into one of the last pews in the church beside his friend all the same, as he had no doubt that Aramis had known he would.
"Delver, O Lord, the souls of the faithful departed from the chains of..."
The priest was speaking, his words droning in the loud, high cielings of the church, and Porthos leaned over to Aramis to whisper, "Who are the departed?"
Aramis leaned forward, "Head of the candlemaker's guild died a year ago, leaving his widow very rich." Porthos nodded, but Aramis' attentions had moved on, by then. "Fourth pew, left side. Madame Laurent. Has a thing about musketeers. Many...brave men have gone there, few have returned."
Porthos shuddered and quickly glanced away when he noticed that they'd caught the woman's eye. He decided that that was a story he did not need to hear from Aramis.
Aramis smirked at his expression. "Fifth pew. Right side. Madame Marchand. In possession of one indifferent husband, three lovers, and...five small and irritating dogs." He grimaced at some memory that Porthos would be sure to ask him about, the next time he managed to get him drunk. He certainly knew about his friend's dislike for dogs, after all, a pitiable thing for a musketeer.
The priest continued the litany, as Porthos gazed at the women still seated.
He always felt a strange amount of guilt when he did this, unlike Aramis, he knew, although he knew that these women were very much inclined. Especially of the ones who were in mourning for their husbands, however shamefully they went about such mourning, even if such usually only meant that the...relationship between them was easier.
And then he saw her, seated in the third pew, glancing over her shoulder at him, with the most beautiful, wide eyes he'd ever seen and a face like an angel's.
He did not realize how long he stared until he heard Aramis discreetly clear his throat, but even then, he could not quite bring himself to tear his away away from her.
She stared right back, not shy at all, and Porthos glanced inquiringly at Aramis, who shrugged.
"Easy does it. It's a requiem mass, not a party of Madame Angel's."
Porthos' lips quirked, and he gave a mock shudder, at the memory of the one and only time that Aramis had managed to drag him to one of Madame Angelica's parties.
They both crossed themselves, sighing in the knowledge that, despite their having arrived late already, there would no doubt be far more of the service left before they could do what they had really came here for.
Lady Alice was nothing like any of the highborn women Aramis had even introduced Porthos to before; she did not have little attacking dogs, nor a cuckolded husband, and was perhaps the kindest woman that Porthos had ever met, save for Flea.
And, what was more, she knew what he was up to, and did not seem to mind it. She had already more than paid for the candles with that first visit, and yet did not appear at all surprised when he returned, the next day.
She even looked pleased, and invited him in.
When he had told Aramis that he was going to supper with Lady Alice, Aramis had whistled lowly and nearly caused him to flush, muttering something about how Porthos always "took things slow" with his ladies, before running off for the arms of his own lady once more.
Apparently, she was a very demanding woman.
"It's just through here," Alice told him, as he took off his shoes and followed her through the front hall, and he grinned at her back, where her hair had been pulled into an elaborate style.
"I do remember where the dining room is, m'lady," he said teasingly, and she glanced back at him over her shoulder, before blushing prettily.
"Of course," she said finally, and he decided that he loved the way she blushed. "I...I'm not altogether very good at this..."
He stopped her, putting a hand on her shoulder, not thinking until after he had done so that she might find it improper. When he looked up at her face, he realized that she had not.
"You're doing fine," he promised her, and she blushed again, before sweeping away into the dining room.
They talked over a variety of topics while they ate a lavish feast that Alice claimed at first that the servants had been working at all day, until she later confessed that she had done a spot of the cooking herself, as she rather loved to do so, even if it was not a habit encouraged of ladies of her station.
Porthos finally sat back in a haze of good food and a beautiful woman, sighing contentedly.
"Your husband was a lucky man."
Alice swallowed. "I fear food gave him no pleasure."
Porthos grunted at that.
"He saw self-discipline as a moral virtue," she went on, eying Porthos and not elaborating, but Porthos needed no elaboration from that.
"Oh," Porthos said intelligently, and she smiled at him, even as he cursed his own wrongheadedness.
"I imagine soldiers are very disciplined, too."
"When they're fighting," Porthos nodded. "Off duty, well..."
"Porthos? Can I ask...It might sound strange...It doesn't matter." She shook her head, looking shamefaced and blushing prettily.
He leaned forward then, and the back, reaching out to brush the hair from her face and kissing her, deep and sweetly, and when she finally pulled away and they both came up for air, he found himself instantly missing those swollen kisses.
"A year's a long time without a kiss," he said softly.
"It's been a great deal longer than that," Alice confessed, not quite meeting his eyes, looking almost ashamed at the admission, and he felt a spark of anger on her behalf, that she might have to feel shame for something like that, something that was clearly no fault of her own.
"How he resisted you, I've no idea," he murmured. "Like I said, self-discipline isn't my strong suit."
She smiled. "Nor mine."
He grabbed her hand, leading her towards the door. "Wrong door!" she called out, giggling. Porthos chuckled as well, and followed after her willingly.
"Bye bye," Aramis said, giving his lady escort another kiss before turning around and grimacing to the rest of the barracks as she swept away, finally sated.
"Oh hello," Porthos smirked, biting back a laugh, and even Treville chuckled as well as Aramis neared them, that look of distaste not leaving his features as he wiped at his mouth with the lady's handkerchief.
"Entry fee?" Porthos called out.
Aramis held it up. "I've earned it, believe me," he muttered, sounding a tad resentful, and Porthos smirked, thinking of his own lovely lady as Aramis tossed the bag of coins into Treville's waiting hands.
D'Artagnan came forward then, handing his own bundle of money over to Treville without a word and moving as if to pass Porthos and Aramis by in the same manner, a mysteriously satisfied look on his face.
"How did you raise the money?" Aramis asked D'Artagnan suspiciously, and D'Artagnan smiled.
"Found a patron of my own."
"Oh?" Aramis sounded intrigued, rather than annoyed, with the less than forthcoming answer. "Wealthy widow?"
D'Artagnan shrugged. "Not as far as I know."
"Gents, when you're ready," Treville murmured, a touch of exasperation in his voice.
Aramis hit the bulls-eye, as he always did, smirking at the look Porthos gave him.
At least in this way, Aramis could still gain the upper hand against him, he supposed goodnaturedly, for he clearly had not with his entry fee.
They sweated and worked away the rest of the day, to the point where his good mood because of Alice had evaporated by the time he'd hit the bull's eye the twentieth time in a row, slapped together two recruits who seemed to have forgotten that they had training as musketeers, and sword fought with D'Artagnan at Athos' insistence that the boy needed to face someone better than him.
D'Artagnan had been working himself raw all day, and, on top of everything else, there was that underlying concern that he would likely kill himself in his attempts before the touranment even took place.
He knew the lad was smarting from the loss of his farm, knew that there would be some sort of reckoning. And he could see the beginnings of that reckoning now, in the way the boy threw himself into his training, the obvious heat behind it worrying even Athos' usually stoic features.
By the time the day was over, Porthos was more than willing to accept the idea of going to the tavern for a stiff drink with Aramis and Athos.
"So, the lady who escorted you to the barracks today..." Porthos said conversationally, as they walked to the tavern beside Athos. D'Artagnan had run off the moment the practices were over, insisting that he had somewhere he needed to be. Porthos was of the opinion that the boy had slipped away so that he could slip back into the barracks without Athos banning him from them for the rest of the day, for more practice.
"A gentleman never kisses and tells," Aramis said in a holier-than-thou voice, before lowering it. "But, between you and me..." he shuddered. "She was very...enthusiastic."
Athos rolled his eyes, taking a drink of the flask he carried always with him.
Porthos snorted, bumping shoulders with the other man. "Would think you'd like that."
"Well, yes," Aramis murmured. "I enjoy passion in, uh, most of its forms. Just...Perhaps not so much enthusiasm, next time." He gave a mock shudder.
"Ah," Porthos teased. "Too much for you, then? I thought I'd never hear of that. You must be agin' on us, friend."
"And what about yours?" Aramis quickly deflected, two high spots of color appearing on his cheeks and making Porthos smirk. "The lovely widow?"
And, despite the day he'd had, Porthos found himself smiling. "Alice. She, uh, we've had dinner."
Aramis raised a brow. "And then there are those without any enthusiasm at all," he said, looking like he was trying very hard not to laugh and failing miserably.
Porthos rolled his eyes, thinking of Alice's late husband. "A gentleman never kisses and tells," he repeated Ararmis' earlier words as they ducked into the tavern, the bowdy music and shouts drowning out his words.
They found seats near the back of the room, and Athos, as always, ordered their drinks.
"You don't know how good you have it, not having to come up with the entry fee with such hard work," Aramis told Athos when the barmaid returned with their ale, casting all too appreciative looks on Aramis as he groaned and took a deep gulp of his own, as she always did. Aramis was a regular, after all. "With all the work I'm doing, Treville should pick me for his champion without contest."
Athos raised a brow, unimpressed. "I hardly think that was the sort of training regimen that Treville had in mind when he told us to practice," he said without a hint of inflection, before walking over to their customary table at the back of the tavern.
Aramis pouted at his retreating back. "I'm sure it's far more...rewarding than pushing D'Artagnan into the dust a dozen times an hour," he muttered, and Porthos snorted, slapping him on the back.
Athos sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "My work will all be for nothing if he keeps going as he is," he said.
Aramis clucked his tongue sympathetically. "And after finding someone to pay his entry fee, too."
Porthos snorted. "He'll make it 'til then; he's a Gascon. In any case, I'll have that title as champion before you," he told the other man. "Even if Treville has noticed your...suffering." He glanced at the barmaid as she found some excuse to wash down the empty table in front of them, giving Aramis ample view of her bosom. "Don't tell me you've suddenly decided on monogamy."
Aramis groaned, flicking his eyes away from the pretty barmaid. "My lady is very posessive of her lovers," he muttered into his cup, glaring down at the liquid resentfully.
That, of all things, got a brief chuckle out of Athos.
"And then there was Aramis still," Porthos went on, reveling in the rapt attention of his lovely audience, as she lay against him, staring up into his eyes throughout the story. "We found him in the Grand Canal, looking like a drenched sewer rat. Almost left him behind."
Alice laughed. "What had he been up to since you lost him?" she asked.
Porthos snorted. "Got himself lost, and found himself in the arms of some noble lady. One of the Medicis, as it turned out, so we had to sneak out of the city by boat at nightfall, lest her father find us. He, uh, wasn't exactly pleased."
Alice hummed. "I listen to all the places you've been," Alice whispered as he caressed her bare arm, her words wistful. "I've never travelled more than five miles from Paris. Never been to London. Venice."
"Well, it's not too late," Porthos said softly, encouraging. "You should go."
She glanced up at him from under her eyelashes. "You could come. Be my tour guide."
"I've never had much time for sight-seeing, when I travel," Porthos chuckled, remembering a few of the adventures that he had just recalled to her. "Someone was always trying to kill me."
She huffed a laugh, but then her expression turned serious. "Have you ever thought what you'd do if you hung up the sword?"
"Being a musketeer is the best thing that ever happened to me. Until I met you."
"Flattery will get you everywhere," she said, smiling and leaning forward to kiss him again. And then she paused, pulling back and staring at him with a sudden intensity that made him swallow. "Another life is possible. If you want it."
Porthos lifted an eyebrow at that.
Before Alice, he had not thought much about having another life. Had not thought that there was another life that he would want, besides that of a musketeer. Being a musketeer had been his life, his reason for existence after Treville had plucked him out of the Court of Miracles and helped him to gain his commission.
But now...
He shook his head finally, kissing her again and dismissing the thought after telling her that he would think about it.
Anne had not known what to expect of this tournament, but the nearly hateful looks that the Musketeers and Red Guards were giving each other as their King and Queen sat down, almost unnoticed, was not it.
She knew that the two had fierce rivalries, compounded by the rivalry between the Cardinal and Treville, but this seemed to be something else, and she did not realize what until the champions for each side stepped forward, and she saw that Treville was one of them.
The other, she did not recognize.
"That man..." Anne said, tilting her head. "I have not seen him amongst the Red Guard before, Cardinal."
The Cardinal raised a brow, as if he was surprised that she had been keeping such a close eye on the Red Guard, before schooling his expression. "He is a...recent recruit, Your Majesty."
"Oh?" she feigned interest, knowing that the Cardinal would have recruited Satan himself if he thought he could win money from such an alliance, and seeing that he had no doubt done so here, as well.
"He was most recently a convict from the countryside, and managed to prove his worth to me in a manner befitting escape from the gallows," the Cardinal intimated to her with a shrug, as though such things hardly mattered.
Anne stiffened, glancing at the hulking creature once more.
"This is a mockery of the tournament," Anne said quietly, and Louis raised an eyebrow at her, looking rather amused.
"Indeed, my dear?"
"The Cardinal's man is a recently escaped convict, not a Red Guard," she murmured, and Louis blinked at her.
"Is that so?"
"Your Majesty-" The Cardinal began, but Louis only raised a hand.
"I do understand that in fact most of those who become such soldiers come from criminal backgrounds, Cardinal. Has this one paid his due, before you allow him to stand against my Captain?"
The Cardinal dipped his head, hiding a smile. "Of course, Your Majesty."
Louis clapped his hands. "There, you see, Anne, there is no problem here. And besides, I have never seen Treville lose a duel before," he laughed at that, as though it were some joke, but Anne only felt a vague sense of nervousness at the words.
Treville might not be a man she liked very well, but he was a far cry from the Cardinal in her mind, and she knew that losing him would risk installing someone far worse. This duel seemed not only foolhardy, but foolish indeed, a waste of a good man.
Anne sighed, setting her chin on her hand and observing the fight with as little interest as she could pretend to have, for she was watching the fight from the corner of her eye. But her gaze now was on the Cardinal, on the gleeful look on his face as that criminal fought Treville.
"I swear, the two of you are like children, fighting each other at every moment," Louis said then, with a long sigh.
Anne and the Cardinal exchanged glances, properly chastened by the words. Or, at the very least, Anne was chastened; the Cardinal looked more mortified at the comparison than anything, which she attempted not to find humorous, as she was hardly in the mood.
When the tournament was over, however, she was relieved when Treville and D'Artagnan both still stood, even as she chuckled ruefully when Louis explained that the rules had been broken and therefore all of the money must go to the royal treasury, despite he himself having betted in the tournament, as he had so earlier bragged to her.
After D'Artagnan had been congratulated by the King, who seemed to have taken an interest in the boy, and the Cardinal had slinked off to wherever he was going to lick his wounds, Anne returned to the palace with her own ladies, going immediately to her rooms and letting her ladies get her ready for the night.
It was only after she'd sent them away, and tossed and turned in bed for some time, unable to sleep, that she thought about the letter that she had stuffed away in her drawer the other day.
And, now that she was awake and aware of it once more, she could not stop thinking of it.
She sighed, getting to her feet and padding over to the drawer, grateful that one of her ladies had left a few embers in the fireplace to keep her warm as she walked over cold marble, hesitating for a moment before opening it.
She picked up the letter that she had nearly forgotten about in recent events, her hands shaking a little as she glanced over her shoulder to ensure that she truly was alone.
She knew that she shouldn't, that doing so could get her in serious trouble with her husband and the Cardinal, that she had already often given the king enough reasons to doubt her, but Anne couldn't help herself.
She opened the letter.
As she had suspected, as some part of her had known all along, it was written in the Spanish tongue.
She folded the letter up again, setting it on the table in front of her and closing her eyes quickly, as though by ignoring it the evidence would go away. She could still tell Louis that it had been a mistake, that she had been confused, and he would very likely believe her, especially considering that the letter had yet to be opened, the seal still unbroken, and he was in such a good mood after this tournament.
He might even trust her the better, for it.
But she couldn't bring herself to do it. She had gone so long without hearing her brother's voice on a page, listening to his words read to her, even if that was all she was allowed from him, and she yearned to hear it now, even if she knew that she shouldn't.
Besides, if her brother had gone to all of this trouble, if it truly was him, then it must have been a serious matter indeed. She knew how her brother loved her; he would not endanger her in this way if he did not think it necessary.
Anne picked up the letter once more.
She ripped open the seal, her fingers shaking as she pulled the letter from its envelope and turned it over once in her hands, still considering.
And then she opened it.
She knew instantly that it was in the flowery script of her brother before she had even read a single word, and held the letter against her chest for a long moment, feeling her heart beating rapidly beneath it.
And then she flatted it out against her desk, and began to read.
My dearest sister, it read, I hope that this letter finds you quickly, and that you will be able to see it, somehow, and to forgive me my deceptions. For I was most desperate, and I could think of no other way of contacting you, and I thought that sending the Spanish Ambassador to speak with you could hardly be better. However, I would prefer that this news find you from me, before anyone else.
Our brother Charles has died. I am told that it was a relatively painless death; that he was thrown from his horse, and the fall killed him quickly. I was not with him in the end; I was in the countryside, celebrating the birth of my firstborn son.
I do believe it a strange thing, to have the birth of my son portend the death of our brother, who would otherwise have been my heir. I have given him the name Balthasar Charles, to honor our brother, who was taken so early and quickly from this world.
I am sorry that you cannot be here to mourn with our family, though I understand that your husband and Richelieu, the snake, would never condone such a reunion. Still, I hope that this letter has brought you some peace in these troubled times, and that you know that my heart is with you.
Your beloved brother,
Philip
Anne covered her mouth with her hand, for the moment unable to do anything more than blink through rapidly watering eyes at the letter. And then, the words seemed to sink in, and her eyes filled until she could no longer read the page.
Her brother was dead. Her baby brother, Charles who had always had a laugh and a happy thing to say, who had always been a little more ambitious than perhaps he should have been.
Gone, forever, and she hadn't known until weeks later, according to the date on the card, because she had been too afraid to open the letter.
Charles had only been twenty-five years old, barely a man yet, and how cruelly he had been taken from the world. And his own sister hadn't even cared enough to know, until now.
She heard a knock at her door then, and Anne froze, the damning letter crinkling harshly in her hands.
"My lady?" a voice called out, and Anne bit down hard on her lower lip, wiping a blotchy face on her sleeve and ripping the letter into tiny pieces and throwing the remains into the fireplace with shaky hands as she called out, "Just a moment."
The fire gobbled up the remains of the letter all too quickly, the only proof she had of her brother's death turning to ash, for her husband would never allow her to travel to Spain and she would never see a body, just as the door opened and Lady Jeanette stepped into the room, glancing at Anne's flushed face and raising a brow.
Anne wiped at her eyes, forcing a smile. "Yes, what is it?"
Lady Jeanette's eyes widened as she took in Anne's complexion. "Your Majesty, what is wrong?"
Anne swallowed hard. "N-Nothing, Jeanette. I merely feel a bit ill after the excitement of the tournament, and I could not sleep. I will go back to my bed soon."
Jeannette stepped forward, the concern on her face growing. "Are you certain?"
"Yes," Anne said quietly. "That will be all, Lady Jeannette, unless there was some other reason you came into my rooms?"
Lady Jeannette gave her one more searching look. "No, Your Majesty."