A/N: I really am evil to these poor musketeers sometimes...
Porthos was the first of his friends that he met when he returned to headquarters. Any idea the large man had on continuing to ignore the young Gascon vanished when Porthos saw the expression on the younger man's face. It only took the words "Constance is ill" and Porthos forcefully steered the young man to the closest chair.
One bottle of wine later, and five minutes with Porthos out of sight, an apologetic musketeer approached D'Artagnan. Treville had altered his orders: the Gascon was to remain in Paris with Porthos and Aramis. Athos alone of the Inseparables was to leave the city.
D'Artagnan couldn't bring himself to thank his friend for having approached their leader for him. Especially given that neither Aramis or Porthos said a word of farewell to Athos when the king's escort left at dawn. Standing in the heat that was oppressive even at the early hour, D'Artagnan waited until he couldn't see any of the musketeers before he turned to go on his watch.
The first moment he could, D'Artagnan made his way to the Mandeville house. Monsieur Mandeville had left with court as he had planned. Very few of the servants remained, though whether they had been taken along or had fled for fear of catching the illness was anyone's guess. Still, there was a maid to open the door to his knock.
His request to enter was refused and he was about to force his way in when Doña Maria appeared behind the maid. A single word sent the young girl scampering away and the Spanish woman stepped outside the house, taking care to close the door firmly behind her. D'Artagnan pulled his hat off his head.
"Your Constance is fighting," Maria informed him, getting straight to the point. She waved her face with her fan, looking out at the unusually quiet street. "Though she did herself no favor by wandering around as ill as she was."
"She will be all right, won't she?"
Maria sighed, meeting his eyes. "If she does not recover, it will not be from any lack of effort on her or my part," she answered.
Not happy with the answer, D'Artagnan nonetheless nodded his understanding. He could remember how every effort had been made to save everyone who'd fallen ill when he was young, and still many lives had been lost. He shoved those thoughts away, knowing that dwelling on death would do no one any good.
"Who went with the king?" Maria asked.
"Treville assigned Athos as the leader, and he took most of the regiment," D'Artagnan responded, surprised by the question. "I was supposed to have gone along."
Something changed in the woman's eyes that he couldn't explain fully. "Then, they are still fighting?"
"They're not talking," D'Artagnan admitted, knowing exactly which 'they' she was referring to. "I almost expected Aramis to challenge Athos to a duel over the whole thing."
Shaking her head, Maria frowned. "Men and their stupid pride will be the death of me," she muttered, her tone an odd mixture of fondness and exasperation. D'Artagnan raised an eyebrow. "And yes, you have the same stupid pride. I will have much to say to those three the next time I see them!"
"I thought you didn't want to see them until they resolved this themselves."
"At that time, I was under the naïve assumption that their friendship would mean more to them than a disagreement over a mission long past," Maria responded. She reached out and put her hand on the his shoulder. "Try not to worry over Constance, D'Artagnan," she said, her tone soft with compassion. "Every care is being taken. I swear it."
D'Artagnan nodded, unable to trust his voice. Offering a slight smile, the woman stepped back and reentered the house. Putting his hat back on, the young Gascon set off to return to his fellow musketeers, feeling no more reassured than when he'd arrived.
The crack of a gunshot rang out in the street and D'Artagnan's hat flew off his head. Reacting on instinct, the young man ducked down, drawing his pistol as he moved. His eyes scanned the street, trying to find the shooter. There was no movement and no sound beyond the door of the Mandville house opening.
"D'Artagnan!" Maria called out, rushing out of the house. "Are you all right?"
Cautiously, D'Artagnan picked his hat up off the ground, grimacing at the hole that was now through the brim. "I'm fine," he responded, raising his voice. "The shot missed."
"Who was it?" Maria asked, glancing up and down the street herself.
"I have no idea."
Every time D'Artagnan returned from checking on Constance's condition, he returned to a bottle of wine provided by Aramis or Porthos. Neither of the men would say anything, but would sit by their worried young friend, supporting him with their presence. And D'Artagnan was grateful for it, not wanting to speak of the situation.
It was a situation that was steadily becoming worse and worse. More men and women were falling ill in the city, and there was no one to care for them. Even in the Musketeer's Headquarters, men were falling ill every day. The sun continued to beat down on the city, and there was no hint of rain in the sky.
Four days after the court left, the unthinkable happened. M. de Treville could not rise from his bed.
The news shook the remaining healthy men. The veteran members of the musketeers conferred to jointly take the lead, Aramis and Porthos among them. They agreed that for as long as possible they should maintain their rigid schedule. The criminals in the city who were healthy would be waiting for a moment when they could run rampant.
Taking double watch kept D'Artagnan from thinking too much about Constance and he took every opportunity to take on more tasks. It was only the watchful eye of Aramis and Porthos that kept him from doing nothing but work.
"You'll do no one any good if you were to fall ill from exhaustion," was Aramis' reasoning when he set a dish of food in front of the Gascon. "Now eat."
"Yeah, what I wouldn't give for a week of leave," Porthos said with a yawn as he settled at the table with them. "This blasted heat needs to stop."
"Yes, complaining about will make it all better. Eat something."
Porthos shook his head. "I'm not hungry," he answered. He scowled at the stew that D'Artagnan was eating. "And this slop isn't worth my time."
"So fastidious," Aramis mocked, leaning back in his chair.
D'Artagnan glanced between them, used to this type of banter. "I bet Athos is eating much better than this," Porthos complained.
"You could've gone along," the former priest pointed out. "Treville wouldn't have objected since D'Artagnan was staying here."
Whatever Porthos would have said in answer to that was lost by two musketeers coming into the courtyard. "A physician!" the younger of the two, a man called Paul, shouted. "Is the physician here?"
"What happened?" Aramis demanded, getting to his feet and rushing over ahead of everyone else.
Paul shook his head as he lowered his partner to the ground. "We were on watch," he explained as Aramis checked the man. "The shot came out of nowhere. We never seen the man. Is Renald going to be all right?"
Gravely, Aramis got to his feet. "I'm sorry," he said. "He is dead."
The young man sagged and D'Artagnan caught him before he hit the ground. "Who would do such a thing?" Porthos demanded, looking murderous. "It is a coward who attacks without showing his face and without giving fair warning!"
"Again," D'Artagnan said softly. He found himself under the sharp gaze of both of his close friends. "I didn't say anything because it seemed like nothing. The first time I went to see how Constance was, there was a shot. Its where the hole in my hat came from. There was no warning and I didn't see anyone. I thought it must have been an accident and a kid didn't want to get into trouble."
"Someone is after musketeers?" Porthos asked, glancing at Aramis.
Looking serious, Aramis lifted his shoulders in a shrug. He stepped aside to let others take care of the body, and someone took Paul from D'Artagnan. "I would blame the Red Guard, but even they would not be so cowardly and we have done nothing to provoke them," he responded. "Even the criminals in the city wouldn't be so careful."
Growling under his breath, Porthos turned back to D'Artagnan. "You should have told us."
"What good would it have done? I didn't see who it was!" D'Artagnan protested, feeling a stab at guilt. If he'd said something, maybe Renald would not be dead.
Porthos' hand came down on the younger man's shoulder. "We know you thought it nothing," the large man said, ever forgiving.
"We must warn all the men to be on their guard from now on," Aramis decided. "And, as soon as we can spare a man, begin an investigation into this incident. If someone is hunting musketeers, we need to stop him."
"The musketeers are wary now," Artus reported. He stood as close to the open window as he could get. The night air was only slightly cooler than what the day's breeze had been. "It took them longer than expected. I thought for sure after I missed that impetuous boy, they would lock down their garrison to wait it out."
Beauchene shook his head. "And no sign of your target?"
"If I had seen him, I would have told you," Artus said sharply. "Shall we begin the second stage of the plan?"
"Yes," his employer answered, running his hand over his gold cross. "Let's see if he comes out when the whole of Paris is threatened."
Most of the musketeers were finding places to sleep at headquarters so that they were ready for anything. Each took a turn caring for their brothers in arms to the best of their ability. When the first of the men died, wine flowed more freely than before, all of the men pained at the failure to save one of their own.
His head pounding, D'Artagnan made his way to the room where he knew Porthos would be sleeping off the massive quantity of wine he'd imbibed the night before. "Porthos," he called out, grimacing in pain. He steeled himself and then pounded his fist on the wood. "Porthos, we have watch. Get up already."
When there wasn't even a groan in answer, D'Artagnan reached for the doorknob. He pushed the door open and his heart nearly stopped. Porthos was sprawled on the floor. "Porthos!" he exclaimed, flinging himself down next to his friend. He could feel the heat coming from his friend's body. "Porthos, answer me!"
"-m?" Porthos mumbled something unintelligible. "-think the flowers are dead."
Frowning, D'Artagnan shook his friend's shoulder, trying to get him to focus. "Porthos, look at me," he urged. "Its me, D'Artagnan."
"-tagnan?"
Knowing he wouldn't be able to move the man on his own, D'Artagnan scrambled for the door. "Aramis!" he shouted. In the hall, from where he was bending over a patient, Aramis looked up. "Its Porthos."
In an instant, Aramis was running up the stairs. "How bad?" he demanded.
"He was talking nonsense."
Worry and weariness lined Aramis' face as he entered Porthos' room. Between the two of them, they got Porthos onto the bed, but not before the large man vomited all over the floor. Being careful to stay out of the mess, D'Artagnan tried not to become sick himself. He poured water from the pitcher and held the bowl for Aramis.
"Its not just too much wine, is it?" he asked, desperate to cling to hope.
Heaving a sigh, Aramis shook his head. "Its the same as everyone else," he answered, placing a damp cloth on his friend's head. He moved his hand to Porthos' shoulder and squeezed it. "But Porthos is the strongest man I've ever known. He will fight this."
"Sometimes that doesn't matter," D'Artagnan couldn't help saying softly.
"Not helping, D'Artagnan," Aramis said sharply. He turned his head into his arm to cough. "You should go on your watch. Leave Porthos to me."
Reluctantly, D'Artagnan backed away. He knew that of any of his fellow musketeers, Aramis was pushing himself the hardest. Very few had even half of his medical knowledge, and with physicians being harder and harder to find, his skills were needed in caring for the ill. And that meant he was constantly moving.
"Aramis," D'Artagnan said carefully. "Take care of yourself."
"No more than any other man left here," the other man answered over his shoulder. "If you should see any kind of herbs, bring them. Anything at this point will be better than nothing."
There was an underlying note of desperation in Aramis' voice that spoke volumes. D'Artagnan found he couldn't say anything, and so he hurried to go on his watch alone. It would be too hard to find another man to ride with, and though he knew Aramis would scold him for being careless, D'Artagnan felt a strong desire to be alone.
He didn't want to have to watch his friend die. He didn't want to have to see anymore death. Treville had not improved in the past three days, his fever only worsening. At times it took three men to hold their leader to the bed before he could harm himself by thrashing around in the throes of a fevered nightmare.
D'Artagnan wasn't sure whether he wished Athos was there to be a support, or being very glad he was far from the reach of the illness. If anything were to happen to Porthos...the young Gascon shook his head. None of them would take it well. It may even destroy them all if the large hearted member of their brotherhood were to die.
His watch took him past the Mandeville house. He slowed Buttercup to a halt and looked up at the open windows. For a moment, he considered getting down and taking the news to those inside. Shaking his head, he decided that nothing good would come of it. He nudged Buttercup's sides and began to continue on his way.
"Monsieur D'Artagnan!" a young voice called after him. Pausing, D'Artagnan looked over his shoulder and recognized one of the maids running after him. "Madame Maria wishes to know what's happened!"
"Nothing she needs to concern herself with," D'Artagnan answered. "How is Mademoiselle Constance?"
The beaming smile that appeared was all he needed to see to guess. "Her fever broke last night," the maid informed him. "She's still very weak, and the rash hasn't faded, but Madame Maria believes she will recover with no trouble now."
Closing his eyes, D'Artagnan breathed out. "Thank you," he whispered. He straightened, feeling hope flare to life. If Constance could survive, so would the rest of his friends. "Give Doña Maria my regards, but I must continue on."
He left the maid standing in the street. Now, he was focused on finding the herbs Aramis had asked for. Porthos wasn't about to die on his watch.
Feeling weaker than she'd ever been before, Constance opened her eyes. She frowned at the unfamiliar ceiling above her. Hearing someone speaking, she turned her head and spotted Doña Maria speaking to a young girl. "He wouldn't say anything?"
The girl shook her head. "He insisted it was nothing you needed to be concerned with," she responded. "Not a word about the shootings."
Shootings? Constance's frown went deeper and she struggled to get up. Was D'Artagnan in trouble?
"Constance!" All the sudden, Maria was beside her, holding her down. "You have been very ill, my friend. You must rest some more."
"D'Artagnan?" Constance managed to ask. She gave up fighting, mostly because she had run out of energy to do so. She vaguely remembered someone speaking to her and feeling terrible. Illness explained that, but not why she wasn't in her own bedchambers at the palace. "Has something happened to D'Artagnan?"
"No, no, of course not," Maria said. Constance found herself staring at the scar. She'd heard about what had happened to the Spanish noblewoman, but hadn't seen it for herself. "Constance, please try to pay attention. D'Artagnan is fine. He was just riding past, so he hasn't caught this horrible illness. You mustn't worry about him."
Realizing that she was being rude, Constance frowned up at Maria's eyes. "Then, why are you worried?"
Maria drew back. "I must always worry over those musketeers," she said, her tone light. "In fact, I must leave you to Carmen's care for a little while now that you are recovered."
Constance was having trouble keeping her eyes open. "Why?"
"Hush. Sleep now," Maria urged, lowering her tone. "Leave those musketeers to me."
Abandoning efforts to learn more, Constance slipped into sleep.
It was Paul who met D'Artagnan on his return. The young Gascon was flushed, not only from the heat, but also with victory at having found an old crone with herbs. He'd even managed to get all she had at a reasonable price. "Tell Aramis that I have something he's going to like," he said to Paul as he slid of Buttercup's back.
"D'Artagnan, Aramis has fallen ill," the other man told him, looking uneasy.
Spinning around, D'Artagnan stared at him. "What?"
"Not an hour ago, he collapsed while seeing to the captain," Paul explained, his eyes wide. He was a newer recruit, and was clearly floundering in the situation. "We managed to find someone with medical knowledge, but he refuses to stay now that he's seen how many are really ill."
D'Artagnan closed his eyes. "And two more musketeers were shot when they went to put out a fire," Paul added as an after thought. "They're both dead."
A fire in this dry heat would be a disaster. Clenching his fist, D'Artagnan shook his head, saving that incident to deal with later. "I see," he said, his voice like stone. He shoved the saddlebags full of herbs at Paul, and then stalked towards the main door. Two musketeers were already arguing with the wizened old man, who D'Artagnan assumed was the man that had been found. "Sir!"
"I will not stay any longer!" the man insisted, turning his glare on the Gascon. "There is nothing more to be done for these men! God has passed judgment on this city. Who am I to fight against the Divine will?"
D'Artagnan bit back a groan at that. An old religious zealot was no fun even on a good day. "Sir, surely you see that these men have need of you," he tried to reason.
"Let me leave. Now!"
His temper snapping, D'Artagnan pulled his pistol and aimed it at the man. "Do not make me threaten you, old man."
"You wouldn't kill me," the old man snapped back. "I'm no good to you dead."
"Maybe, but I have the feeling you can still work if I were to put a bullet in your shoulder," D'Artagnan responded, shifting his aim.
The man raised his chin. "I will not be bullied into this."
"D'Artagnan!"
Surprised, D'Artagnan spared a glance back at the woman who was coming into the hall. Doña Maria was dressed in a simple brown gown, the hood of her black cloak covering her head. There was the timid maid behind her. "Doña Maria, now is not a good time," the young Gascon answered. "I must convince this man to stay and see to his patients."
He wasn't really surprised when the woman ignored his words. "I see," she said. "Well, I've come to see Aramis and Porthos. Will you please point me in their direction and I will let you continue with your...convincing."
"Aramis and Porthos are ill," D'Artagnan informed her bluntly. "Which is why I am insisting this man remain."
In the middle of removing her cloak, Maria went very still for a moment. "When this is over, D'Artagnan, you and I will be having a conversation about does and does not concern me," she said, folding her cloak and tossing it onto the stair railing. She pointed at the frail, defiant old man. "Show me to them, señor . Now."
"No foreigner tells me what to do," the old man sneered. "Especially not a woman."
Two more pistols joined D'Artagnan's. "You will go along with the lady, monsieur," Maurice, one of the old musketeers said, with a steely note in his voice. "And count yourself fortunate that we are willing to forget the slight given her in our presence."
Where one pistol hadn't fazed the man in the least, three seemed to give the old man something to think about. He glared at the musketeers and then turned, very slowly. "Fine," he spat out. "This way, woman."
Slowly, as the old man went up the stairs with Maria close behind, D'Artagnan lowered his gun. "The illness isn't our only problem. We can't afford to keep sending men out on watch, if they're just going to get killed," Maurice said quietly, getting the young Gascon's attention. "We don't even know who this man is."
"Something needs to be done," D'Artagnan agreed, somewhat bemused to find himself one of the men being looked to. He supposed it came from his close association with Aramis, Athos, and Porthos. He rubbed the side of his head as he thought. "Give me some time to think of just what that could be."
"Salir! Ahora!"
Flinching, D'Artagnan looked up to see that the old man was scrambling for the stairs, and Maria was pursuing with her finger pointed at the man in what was a surprisingly threatening way. She stopped halfway down the stairs, glaring as the man made a beeline for the door. "Let him leave!" the Spanish woman snapped as the musketeers moved to stop the man.
"We need him!" D'Artagnan argued, pointing after the man as he stalked towards the stairs. "You were supposed to be persuading him to remain!"
"I would not have allowed that...that man anywhere near a man I hated," she responded defiantly. "He wouldn't have been any help as his medical knowledge was more than a little alarming. Have you seen what he has done to Aramis?"
Alarmed, D'Artagnan bounded up the stairs, pushing past her. He made straight for the room where he'd left Porthos. He knew without a doubt that there would be no other room the others would have put Aramis. The stench of fresh sickness hit him as he entered the room, and he raised his arm to cover his nose.
His eyes widened as he took in the bloodstained bandage that was wrapped around Aramis' arm. He'd seen men bled before, but never left in this condition. Maria slipped past him and went to Aramis' bedside. "The man is un carnicero," she said, a note of condemnation in her tone. She began to unwrap the poorly tied bandage. "How many others are ill?"
Caught off guard by the question, D'Artagnan hesitated before he made a guess. The woman showed no surprise, only nodded her head as if he'd merely confirmed it for her. "So, most of the musketeers who are still here. That is not good, but not unexpected. And you are still being hunted in the streets?" the woman asked.
"Yes," D'Artagnan answered with resignation. He had no idea how the woman seemed to know what was going on around her. He could understand why Athos would have been suspicious of her. "I don't think you should be-."
The woman held up her hand, interrupting him. D'Artagnan was momentarily distracted by the blood that was on her hand. Aramis' blood. The young Gascon felt slightly ill. "Clearly you need help here," Maria said, her matter of factness catching his attention. "How many of you know how to manage a household, which is essentially what this is? You worry about drawing your enemy out of hiding. I will worry about everyone who is sick. What of señor de Treville?"
"He is ill as well," he informed her. "He hasn't shown any sign of recovering."
Maria's hand curled tightly around the a bloody bandage. "Then, you have a great deal to see to, D'Artagnan," she said, the calm false in her voice. She stood up and went to Porthos' bedside. She laid the back of her hand on his head for a moment. The large man muttered something unintelligible. "Oh my friends."
"We needed that physician."
"Physician? That...man was no physician!" Maria snapped. "Imbécil!"
"Excuse me?"
"Not you, though you are close to becoming one in my opinion," the woman responded, glancing over. She straightened her shoulders and faced him. "What is the one thing a physician worries over when a man is shot or stabbed?"
Puzzled, D'Artagnan frowned. "Blood loss," he answered automatically. "What does that have to do-?"
"If blood loss is such a concern, why inflict it on one already sick?" the woman asked, interrupting him yet again. She waved her hand dismissively. "I know. I know. The humors must be balanced, but it does not make the least bit of sense. Now, you will leave the sick to me. You have an enemy to find."
"How do you possibly expect to care for so many alone?"
An enigmatic smile curving her lips, Maria raised an eyebrow. "Whoever said I would be alone?"
"This seems like too much of a risk. With the entire garrison filled with sick men, who cannot defend themselves, we need to draw our enemy out somewhere else."
Glancing around Treville's office, D'Artagnan could see that most of the musketeers were in agreement with that sentiment. They'd been "Where else, then?" he asked, putting every ounce of conviction that he had into his words. "We all know that we cannot keep riding into the city without knowing who it is that is after us. And the only way we can learn who it is, is if we draw him out after us."
Leaning forward, D'Artagnan hit the spread out map with his fist. "We owe it to those who have already been killed not to let another musketeer fall to this man," he insisted, seeing several of the men's expressions turn thoughtful. "We know our headquarters, and our enemy won't. Here, we have the advantage."
"What about the rest of Paris?" a man called out as the office door squeaked when it opened. "Are we to do nothing if another fire breaks out? The city will burn!"
There was a murmur of agreement. "Who stopped the fire earlier?" D'Artagnan challenged. He watched the others exchange puzzled looks. "Brun and Moreau were killed. What happened to the fire then? The city is still standing and I don't see any smoke. So, we have to assume that our enemy has no quarrel with Paris itself. The fire was just a way to draw us out."
He could see that he was getting through to them. "We owe it to the dead to protect those who cannot protect themselves," Maurice argued. "That includes the ill who are here. What you're suggesting is putting the ill right in the middle of a battle!"
"They wouldn't be in the middle of the fight. I propose we transfer all the sick men who can be moved to the cellar, and leave it defended by two musketeers," D'Artagnan responded instantly. "And, if the rest of us do our jobs as we've been trained to do, the sick will never be in any kind of danger that they're not already in."
When he looked around, D'Artagnan could see that there were no more objections. "I wouldn't suggest this if I didn't see any other way," he said, lowering his voice. "Treville would be the first to say this is our best option."
One by one, the other men began to nod. "All right," the young Gascon said. "We should begin moving the men. Pass the word on to the others when they come off guard."
"The women aren't going to be very happy about that."
At young Paul's words, all of the men turned and looked at the man. "What did you say?" D'Artagnan asked in confusion.
Paul gestured towards the door. "The women have already moved all the men once," he answered his voice nervous. "You haven't seen? They've been at work this past hour."
Weaving his way through the crowd of men, D'Artagnan pulled the door open and stepped out. He came to a stop as a middle aged woman marched past with an armful of clean linen. A moment later, a young girl ran past with a bowl of water in her hands. "What-?" D'Artagnan began to ask as he moved to the railing to look down into the hall.
Where normally only men trained and talked and drank, there were at least fifteen women at work. Just as Paul had said. The sick men had been moved into the hall where there was more room. D'Artagnan realized he recognized some of the faces. "This is what she meant," he whispered.
Wives of musketeers. Daughters. Sisters. Even a lady of the night D'Artagnan had seen Aramis kiss farewell one day.
All of them working to care for the sick soldiers.
Turning, D'Artagnan faced the other, healthy musketeers who remained. "We have work to do," he said, getting their attention. "We're not going to have much time before our enemy figures out what we're doing."
Quickly, the men scattered into pairs, each consulting with his partner. D'Artagnan wasn't at all surprised at how many of them stopped to speak to the woman. The young Gascon grinned when he saw every single woman shoo the musketeers away with sharp words and threats. A musketeer would never have anything to do with a weak woman.
He found his thoughts going to Constance, and he wondered if she knew what was happening. Shaking his head, D'Artagnan set out for the gunroom. Time was short, and there was much work to get done.
"The musketeers are hiding away in their headquarters like scared children."
Beauchene shook his head. "Like the intelligent soldiers that they've been trained to be," he corrected.
"You rather sound like you admire these musketeers," Artus commented, eyeing his employer with no little suspicion. "Which would be ridiculous because you want them all dead."
"I want only one of the musketeers dead, not them all," Beauchene corrected again, meeting the criminal's look with disdain. "His men are merely the victims that must be sacrificed for me to have my revenge. And there is no dishonor in respecting your opponents skills. Every good soldier knows that to be the case."
Artus scoffed. "The only thing I respect about my enemies is that they fall at my feet."
"That is because you are not a soldier."
"Neither are you."
Shaking his head again, Beauchene finished his glass of wine. "Not long and this will be ended," he murmured, fingering the gold cross.
"I'll gather my men and we will begin our attack."
"No. Not just yet." At Artus' confused look, the older man explained, "They will expect an attack in the night. If we wait until dawn, once we wait two days, at least some of them will be tired and we will have a greater chance of getting in."
Grabbing the bottle of wine, Artus gave a mocking bow. "I'm sure you know best."
It had taken a very long argument with the wife of one of the musketeers before the women consented to allowing the sick men to be moved. Though it took several hours, the hall had been cleared and all windows covered. Night had fallen. Feeling exhausted, D'Artagnan took a seat on the stairs and rested his elbows on his knees, his head on his hands.
"I hear you have a plan."
Lifting his head, D'Artagnan twisted around to look up at the Spanish woman coming down the steps. She looked as tired as he felt, and her dress had some suspicious looking stains decorating it. "You said it yourself," D'Artagnan responded. "We need to draw our enemy out sooner rather than later. So, that's what we're doing."
To his surprise, Maria sat down next to him. "That is good," was all she said.
There was a moment of silence that, as it always did, made D'Artagnan uneasy. "That was a good idea, getting all the women," he remarked. "I never would have thought about it. How did you convince them to come here? You can't tell me that they have no other family who is sick and has need of them right now."
"True," Maria answered, her tone serious. "But you underestimate a woman's love for her husband or sweetheart. A girl's love for her father. And a sister's affection. Every woman who answered my message needed no convincing. They know the King's Musketeers are the most steadfast of protectors to the city and are needed."
"If you were a man, you'd either be the king's adviser or leading the musketeers yourself," D'Artagnan marveled.
"Then, perhaps it is just as well I am not. Cardinal Richelieu would be a very intimidating opponent, and I am fond of Treville."
Surprised, D'Artagnan frowned at her. He well knew her affection for his friends, but never once had anything been said about his captain. And, thinking of his friends... "How are Aramis and Porthos?"
The woman beside him heaved a sigh. "They are fighting," she responded. "But Aramis...I am worried that the cut on his arm is becoming infected."
Closing his eyes, D'Artagnan shook his head. "Athos will not be happy if Aramis dies," he commented, not able to think of anything else to say about the situation.
"I will not be happy if Aramis dies. I've lost too many people in my life."
Forcing his eyes open, D'Artagnan peered at her. "You still miss your husband?" he asked. This was the first time he'd ever been alone with the woman. He was curious about what exactly it was about her that attracted Aramis and Porthos. "Were you married for very long?"
Again, Maria sighed. "Six years," she answered, her voice low and sad. Startled, D'Artagnan stared at her. "My father arranged my betrothal to the Marquis de Molin when I was thirteen, the same year Queen Anne married the king. It is why I was not allowed to accompany her when she traveled to Paris then, as was my wish."
"You wouldn't have stayed long," D'Artagnan responded. "Porthos told me that most of the original Spanish ladies in waiting were dismissed by the king's adviser."
"That would have been a most interesting day," Maria responded, a ghost of a smile appearing.
D'Artagnan considered that and chuckled. "I guess it would have been," he agreed, unable to think of a single person in court, besides the queen herself, who would have been able to force Maria from anywhere she wanted to be. He hesitated before he asked his next question. Aramis and Porthos would have his hide if they ever heard he questioned her. "Was your husband the first person you ever lost?"
"No, my mother died when I was fifteen years old," Maria answered. She wrapped her arms around herself and leaned against the wall. "My mother was the most beautiful woman I ever knew. She loved Paris, and would have been so happy to know I had managed to come to her favorite city." Her voice lowered to almost a whisper. "Even though the price was so very high."
"What are you talking about?" D'Artagnan asked. He glanced around, regretting that he didn't have a bottle of wine. It seemed like that kind of conversation.
Maria met his gaze. "You have been in Madrid, D'Artagnan," she responded. "You know the attitude of men there." She shook her head. "The attitude of most men. A woman has no say in what happens to her. Do you honestly believe that my brothers just allowed me, a widow, to leave Madrid without them?"
Flinching, D'Artagnan shrugged. He'd honestly not thought about it at all. "So, what? Your brothers had your uncle pay for you? That kind of price?"
"I am no slave to be bought or sold!" Maria snapped. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, to calm down. "Though, I suppose it is the same thing when you think about it. My brothers have arranged for me to be married once more."
The Gascon stared at her. "You're what?"
"I am now betrothed," she clarified, disgust twisting her face. She dropped her gaze and seemed to hug herself tighter. "They have not told me who it is, but the man is coming to Paris on an Ambassadorial mission from the Pope. Or so I was told. That is why they were so willing to allow me to come to Paris with my uncle."
Shocked, D'Artagnan shook his head as he tried to comprehend this news. "Why haven't you told Aramis or Porthos?" he demanded. "They're going to be furious when they learn about this!"
"That's why I haven't told them!" Maria answered. "I know I should have, but they were so happy to see me when I arrived that I couldn't bear to do it."
"Well, waiting until your fiance shows up isn't going to make things any better," D'Artagnan pointed out. He ran his hand through his hair. "I cannot emphasize just how furious they're going to be. And Athos-."
Groaning, Maria lifted hand to her face. "He was just starting to warm up to me," she lamented.
"Well, you shouldn't complain. This is your doing."
"Its not as though I had any thing else I could do!" Maria objected, her eyes flashing. "If you were given the choice between being secluded away in a convent for the rest of your life or marrying a stranger, what choice would you have made? That was the choice my brothers gave me. At least this way, I could come back to Paris."
D'Artagnan scoffed. "Yeah, just to have Porthos murder your fiance."
"You think he would?" Maria asked, her tone almost hopeful. She shook her head a moment later. "Athos would never let him."
"Madame!" a woman called from above them. "Come quickly!"
Getting to his feet, D'Artagnan helped the Spanish woman up. "Swear to me you won't say a word of this to them," Maria requested. "Once they are well, I wish to tell them myself."
"Oh, I'm not breathing a word of our conversation to anyone," D'Artagnan answered, holding his hands up. Nodding, Maria hurried up the stairs and vanished from sight. The Gascon breathed out and shook his head. "I don't have a death wish."