This part of the journey is a bit different, but I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Make the most of it: it's the last peaceful moment they'll have for a while!
Chapter 11: Telling Tales
"Bother!" The Queen sounded exasperated. Constance and d'Artagnan exchanged glances. After d'Artagnan had explained to the Queen his way of distracting himself when faced with long missions, he had taken the opportunity to walk with Constance and check how she was. She'd confessed that her arm was hurting more today, so he'd taken off his jacket and draped it carefully over her shoulder, tying the sleeves together to fashion a sling for her, against her protests that she was fine. Now they both stopped and turned to face the Queen.
"What's wrong?" Constance enquired.
"It's not working anymore," she exclaimed. "I've been planning a new aromatic garden at the Palace, but I keep forgetting what I've already planted and doing the same bit several times..." She sounded frustrated. D'Artagnan suppressed a grin. It had worked for nearly an hour, which she hadn't realised.
"It's hard to concentrate when you're tired, and hungry," he consoled her, then found she was looking at him expectantly. He sighed. Looking around he could see no evidence of habitation and definitely no sign of sanctuary on the horizon. Just endless scrub interspersed with a mixture of grassland and almost moorland landscape, rising in the distance to a heavily wooded ridge.
"Tell me a story then," she prompted, expectantly. "Maybe one of your missions?" He looked doubtful. Most of the missions he'd been on were uncomfortably close to their own current predicament, as they all seemed to court disaster, injury or separation at some point. The Queen saw his hesitation but wasn't about to give up. "Well, tell me about your childhood. A happy memory?"
He started walking again while he thought, knowing if they stopped for too long they would all stiffen up. He noticed Constance watching him with interest. He'd given her the bare bones of his childhood, of course – brought up on a farm in Gascony, no siblings, mother died when he was 8 – but nothing more. A brief smile lightened his battered face. Talking about walking the farm boundaries with his father had reminded him of one of his best – and worst – moments growing up.
Constance nudged him. "Share!" she demanded, having noticed his fleeting smile. He hesitated, but then saw the pleading look on the Queen's face. "Alright..." he said reluctantly; he wasn't used to talking about himself, and definitely not to the Queen. But she needed a diversion. He took a deep breath, and began.
"My village is small, and we worked hard. We..."
Anne interrupted. "Your family had a farm?"
"Well, yes. My father was..."
"But you said he was a soldier?"
"Yes, he was injured so came home when I was four. I didn't remember him. Actually I was quite frightened of him at first." He remembered his father sitting silently by the window in the rooms they'd rented in Toulouse while his father was away with the army. His mother had taken in washing – like Constance, he realised suddenly. He hadn't thought of that for years. Maybe that's why he had felt at home with Constance straight away. "He found it hard to adjust after being a soldier for so long... but when my grandfather died we took over the family farm in Lupiac – we moved there when I was five." He remembered being sad to leave his friends in Toulouse, and resenting this brooding man who had come home so damaged, demanding his mother's attention and mostly ignoring his small son except to tell him off when he was too noisy. Which was probably most of the time, he admitted to himself.
"Things were better on the farm. I loved being outside and started helping my father with the animals."
"What did you have?" questioned Constance, enjoying hearing more about his life.
"Oh, the usual; cows, pigs, some chickens... My grandfather was frail when he died so things were a bit run down. We ploughed by hand the first couple of years then bought a horse. It was hard work but we built it up again slowly – and later we bought more land from neighbours. I used to walk to school in Lupiac but when I was needed on the farm, that came first."
The Queen was fascinated. This was so different from her upbringing. "And you had no siblings?" Her family was big and she had always been surrounded by maids, siblings, cousins, nannies, governesses, courtiers... she couldn't imagine being happy on her own on a farm, miles from the nearest village and with just a moody father for company.
"No-oo..." There was a hint of hesitation in the word, and a look of pain crossing his eyes. Constance's hand crept into his and she squeezed.
"You don't have to ..." Constance spoke at the same time as the Queen apologised for prying, having also noticed his hesitation.
"No... no, it's ok." He took a deep breath and made a decision. "My mother got pregnant when I was about eight. They were both so happy, and I dreamed of a younger brother... but that was the year of the rains and the fever, and she got sick. The baby was born healthy, but my mother died four days later." There was a short pause. He was glad of the warmth of Constance's hand in his. He sighed. "The baby was beautiful. She named him Henri, but she couldn't feed him. The midwife showed me how to prepare cows' milk and honey, and I fed him, and he put on weight... he was always smiling... but he got sick too after three weeks, and we lost him." His voice had dropped almost to a whisper.
He usually tried not to think about those days of despair, when his father had shut himself away with his mother's body for two days, until the local priest came with three villagers and forced him to let them take her away to bury her. Their neighbours brought food, and he carried his brother Henri everywhere, took care of him, washed him and slept with him, tried so hard to do everything right to keep him alive. He cried for days, on his own, when Henri died. It was the priest again who arranged for the baby to be buried with his mother, and his father didn't even come to the short service by the grave, leaving the young boy to stand alone with the priest to say the prayers and fill in the tiny hole in the ground.
He realised he'd been silent for a while, lost in the memories, and hastened to change the subject.
"Sorry, that wasn't what I was going to tell you. " But the Queen was not to be diverted.
"Why didn't your father help with the baby?" she asked, gently.
"Oh... my father was... lost, I suppose. It took him a long while to get over it. If he ever did." It had been months before he emerged properly from their bedroom. D'Artagnan had taken food to him daily, and taken the plates away again, mostly untouched. He'd tried to cope with the farm pretty much on his own, feeding and moving the livestock, mending fences, driving cows or pigs to market with the help of their dog and sometimes neighbours who kept an eye on them, when they could spare the time. The next spring he'd harnessed their horse and ploughed two fields on his own, taking days to do it, struggling to roll heavy stones onto the ploughshare to weigh it down as his own bodyweight was not enough to dig the blades into the soil. All this time his father sat in the bedroom or more rarely the kitchen, brooding or sleeping.
Things had finally come to a head in late spring when their best cow was struggling to calve. d'Artagnan had begged his father to come and help him then ran back to the barn to check on the cow. The poor cow strained and groaned, and d'Artagnan did what he'd seen his father do, and reached inside her, struggling to straighten the calf's feet so they could slip out. The feeling, the blood, the smell, made him gag but he didn't give up, knowing the calf and probably the mother would also die if he couldn't help them. He finally got the calf's hooves lined up, and pulled with all the strength of his nine-year-old frame, but the calf was still stuck.
In despair he raced inside again to find his father had made it down to the kitchen but was vaguely looked around for his boots. "Père! Hurry, come on, we'll lose both of them. Papa! Please!" He reached out a bloody hand but hesitated because it was so long – months – since he had touched his father. Another bellow from the barn pushed him over his limit and he tugged at his father's sleeve. His father looked at him blankly. "Where are your boots? Oh, please..." He let go, found the dusty boots where they had sat by the fire for nearly six months, and shoved his father's feet into them. He tugged again, but when his father didn't rise, d'Artagnan finally snapped. Screaming at him to: "Move! Damnit!", as if in a dream, he saw his own hand flash through the air and crack against his father's face.
The sound of the blow had brought d'Artagnan to his senses and he stood, frozen, as his father's head rocked with the strength of his blow. He held his breath. Slowly his father straightened his head again and raised his eyes to his son's gaze. And held his gaze. For the first time in months he saw his surviving son properly, seeing his beautiful boy had grown into a wild-haired, too thin, grubby-faced lanky lad who was now staring at him with wide eyes, bloody hands and a mixture of fear and panic on his face. He took a breath that felt like the first one he'd taken since his wife had died in his arms, and let it out. Then he rose slowly to his feet, put his hand on d'Artagnan's bony shoulder and turned him towards the door.
They had not saved the calf; but they did save the mother and she went on to give them four more healthy calves over the years. More importantly, d'Artagnan felt as if he'd got his father back - even though he cringed whenever he remembered striking him.
Slowly his father had got himself fit again and took his share of the farm work back, although it was many more months before he began to re-engage with his friends or the village. So when d'Artagnan's best friend from school, Jacob, proposed that they should both enter that year's village tournament, he had harboured a hope, but not the expectation, that his father would come to watch.
"What was the tournament?" asked Anne. d'Artagnan actually jumped when she spoke; he had been so lost in memories that he had forgotten that he had a rapt audience, and could not be sure how much he had voiced aloud.
"Oh, it was fun." His voice became more animated and his face lit up as he started to describe it. "Most villages around had some kind of ceremony each spring when they walked their parish lands, reinforcing the boundaries between villages by beating the ground with sticks to mark the lines. The village priest would say prayers at the four compass points, and some villages would pour wine or leave offerings around the boundary. We called it Beating the Bounds. I don't know how it started but our village turned it into a competition for the youngsters. You had to be aged between 11 and 16, and it would start in the village square, then the competitors would run to the river, swim under the bridge, then run through the forest and back to the square. It was one of the highlights of the year; everyone came to watch and make bets.
"By the time I was old enough to take part it had got more elaborate, with a climb over the ruined wall of the old inn and over the roof, then down to the river, and coming back there were horses borrowed for the day; there were heats of six boys at a time, and you just got on whichever horse you fancied, jumped some poles then galloped back to the square. It was tricky if you were small because we were riding bareback so there was lots of gamesmanship where the bigger kids took the smaller horses to be sure of leaving the younger kids struggling to mount."
Anne made a disapproving noise, picturing the scene and feeling sorry for the smaller competitors, but Constance snorted and tucked her arm in d'Artagnan's. "Go on," she encouraged him. "How did you do?"
"Well..." he paused for dramatic effect, then ducked as she went to whack him.
"Come on, did you win?"
"Oh yes, do tell me you won!" Anne joined in.
He grinned at the pair of them for their expectant faces. "I was 11, remember; it was my first year and some were five years older than me... but I was doing well in my group to begin with. I was quick over the walls and a fast runner, but I was overtaken on the swim as I hadn't done much more than mess around in the water before. But I caught up with the leader of our heat on the run up into the woods, and I was really loving it... until I realised the one I was overtaking was the local Comte's son, Gerard. He'd won it for the last three years, and didn't like some young sprat overtaking him. So he tripped me up in the woods when we were out of sight."
"What?" Anne sounded outraged. "But that's cheating!"
D'Artagnan sounded amused. "Yes, and it gets worse. I was winded, and he came back and held out his hand and I took it, thinking it must have been a mistake and he was going to help me up. But he pulled me onto his fist, punched me in the face, and knocked me back to the ground, and then he kicked me and told me to learn my place."
"How can you sound so calm? His behaviour was abominable!" blurted the Queen.
d'Artagnan laughed out loud at the expression on her face. "I know; I was stunned and not just from the blow to my head. I hadn't met him before, only recognised him from afar, and had no idea what he was like or I might have been more circumspect." He paused to consider, then shrugged, acknowledging he probably wouldn't have backed down even then. Constance grinned knowingly and nudged him to continue. "Yeah... Anyway, by the time I got to my feet I was at the back of my group. I made up a few places but even so I didn't qualify for the final round." He tried not to sound bitter but even after all these years he couldn't hide his disappointment.
"I thought this was a happy memory for you," Constance sounded worried.
"It is! Don't worry, there is more." He paused and took a gulp from the water skin, then handed it around before moving them off again. At least his tale was keeping their minds off how tired and hungry they all were. "I went straight to my room when I got home. Father was outside feeding the animals but I was so angry that I didn't want to speak to him. I heard voices after a bit, which was unusual – we didn't have many visitors – but I was too upset to care. But then my father called me to come down. I should have made the evening meal like I always did, but when I got to the kitchen, he had cooked, and tidied, and was sitting at the table waiting for me. It was the first time in six months that he had cooked a meal. I couldn't believe my eyes!" He smiled at the memory. "It turned out the village priest had worked out what happened and come to my father. I suppose it was obvious as I had been so close behind, then emerged from the woods minutes after Gerard with a cut lip and bruised face. The priest thought my father ought to know in case I was badly hurt."
"Were you?" Constance's voice was soft.
"Not really – only my pride I suppose. But having my father make an effort, wanting to talk to me – that made it worthwhile." He paused, remembering the feeling of utter disbelief, followed by growing hope as his father served their meal then poured him a glass of watered down wine and toasted his first effort at the competition. Slowly d'Artagnan had started to recount the day's events, encouraged by his father's attention. It had felt good, so good.
"So what happened about the Comte's son? Did he get away with it?" Constance wanted to know.
For a moment d'Artagnan's face looked bleak. Then he seemed to visibly collect himself and he took a breath, glancing at them as if checking whether they had noticed. What was that, she wondered. There was something there... but he was continuing now and his voice was warm again.
"There was nothing we could do. You know what it's like; you can't complain about the nobility, not without an awful lot of witnesses. Sorry, Your Majesty," he added quickly, worried he had given offense, but she waved his apology away. She knew perfectly well how flawed the nobility could be. He nodded his thanks, and carried on. "So I decided to make sure I won the next year. Jacob and I practiced our swimming..." Constance was sure that bleak expression crossed his features again fleetingly. "And the following year when we were 12 we entered again. Jacob and I both won our heats and of course Gerard did too – he was as big as an adult by then and pretty strong. But I still reckoned we had a chance; Jacob was small for his age but we looked out for each other and he was pretty fast...
"So in the final there were six of us. We were going well until the river, but Jacob was never a strong swimmer so we dropped behind a bit by the end of that section. It was like the previous year; we caught up in the woodland..." Constance noticed, but didn't comment on, the fact that it seemed d'Artagnan had stayed with his friend when he struggled in the swim. "... and this time he had friends there waiting for us. We'd overtaken the others by then, and when we entered the forest we saw Gerard had just stopped running and stood with his mates, waiting for us to reach them.
"We couldn't get past them – they were blocking the track – so we had to stop. He started baiting us, calling us names, saying that farmers kids had no right entering the competition; then they came at us. I was bigger than Jacob so I pushed him behind me and took a swipe at Gerard. We got hit but we were quick and eventually Jacob dodged through and got past. He was yelling at me to follow him, and I was shouting at him to keep going, and one of them whacked me on the head with a branch, but I fell against Gerard and brought him down, and Jacob kicked one in the..." Constance coughed, Anne giggled and d'Artagnan flushed. "Ah... well, he kicked him... and I managed to floor the last one and we took off.
"Gerard caught up with us in the run for the horses, but I was lucky and managed to grab one of the better jumpers. Gerard was right behind me but he picked one of the worse jumpers ... or maybe he just wasn't such a good rider. He crashed a couple of the fences... and yes, I did win that year."
"Oh, well done d'Artagnan!" Constance crowed and gave him an enthusiastic one-armed hug. He laughed, slightly embarrassed, and gently disentangled her.
"Yeah... he was livid, of course, tried to say we'd cheated, cut past them in the woods or something, but I had blood running down my face from where I'd been hit, and Jacob had a black eye, so it was obvious something had happened. They were way bigger than us, and three on two, and everybody hated the de la Joulles family anyway, so I was given the trophy and Gerard stomped off... It was sweet!" He threw his head back and laughed out loud at the memory of that day, sounding carefree and all of 12 years old again.
"Did your father see the race?" Anne wanted to know.
"Yes, he came! He didn't say much but he took me to the village bar and bought everyone a round of drinks that night so I think he was pretty happy."
"Thank you for sharing that memory with us." Anne looked around, surprised to notice how high they had climbed out of the valley they'd been in all morning. "Hey, your distraction tactics do work!" d'Artagnan smiled, and gave her a little bow.
"All part of the service, Your Majesty," he grinned boyishly.
Constance hid her own smile. It was rare, these days, for d'Artagnan to spend any time with her let alone open up in this way and she had just learned more about him in 20 minutes than she had in months whilst he was lodging in her house. She had a mental image of a younger, scruffier d'Artagnan dodging out of the woods, vaulting bareback onto a horse, laughing with his friends holding a trophy... then her smile faded as she remembered the hints he'd given of the bleak time with his father, pictured him carrying baby Henri around as he fed the chickens, and realised he'd had to deal with his own grief at losing his mother, and his baby brother, completely alone. Now, more than ever, she understood the depth of his despair when he arrived in Paris having lost his father as well.
She realised her steps had slowed, and hurried to catch up to the others. She went to slip her hand into d'Artagnan's but as he turned with an encouraging smile she stopped dead, staring at him.
"What?" he queried, looking around quickly in case he'd missed some sign of danger.
"Your shirt..." she trailed off then reached out to turn his shoulder so she could see his back. "How did I miss this?" She sounded cross and d'Artagnan grimaced briefly.
Anne had stopped now and came back to where Constance was peering at d'Artagnan's back intently. "What is it?" she asked.
"It is nothing. Ladies, we should keep moving," d'Artagnan made to turn but Constance stopped him with a firm hand on his shoulder that caused him to stifle a gasp of pain. She dropped her hand instantly but fixed him with an icy glare. "Nothing?" she mimicked him. "Your shirt is stuck to your back with blood and I can see torn flesh underneath. I don't call that nothing! Why didn't you say anything? When did this happen?" she demanded fiercely.
D'Artagnan floundered under her onslaught. "I... it happened in the river. And I did mention it, last night, but we treated my arm and then we were tired... and there was nothing to be done," he finished more firmly. "It's just bruising, nothing broken," he added hopefully, but she was having none of it.
"Are you deaf? There is blood, d'Artagnan. Even you can't pass that off as nothing. You should have said; it needs cleaning. I can't believe I didn't notice!"
And there, realised d'Artagnan, was the nub of her fury. "Constance, I've had my jacket on, how could you see?" They both looked at his jacket, now doing duty as sling for her arm. Clearly visible, now they looked, was a ragged rent in the leather, ringed with a dark colour that had no business there. She raised her eyes to his, accusation fighting with worry in her gaze.
"I didn't notice the rip even when making your sling, so how could you?" he said, softly. Tears sprang unbidden to her eyes and he knew he had to take charge again. Worry, exhaustion and pain was wearing them all down and making them emotionally vulnerable. And apart from anything else they had stopped in full view of any searchers. "Right, we will find cover then you can take a look for me and see if anything is to be done," he said, decisively.
He turned, re-oriented himself, and moved off, the two women falling in silently behind him.
Author's Note: I have no idea whether French villages have the tradition of Beating the Bounds, but I've known variations on it in English villages, including one where teams took part in a relay race around the boundaries (running, cycling, canoeing, horse-riding... I was the "woman with dog" leg and also half a "human wheelbarrow". It was great fun! I know French villages use any excuse for a fete, so I thought why not have Lupiac celebrate the end of the winter in this way?
