Chapter XXXVI

Life in Paris, being a soldier, making friends, becoming a Musketeer, fighting to protect others, swearing an oath of allegiance to the King of France, falling in love, risking his life every day, all of these new developments had made d'Artagnan forget what his life had been for the major part of his existence. Growing up in Gascony, working on a farm, only practicing sword-fighting when they were not too tired from working in the fields. He would have gladly forsaken these mundane tasks forever.

Life used to be more exciting in Paris. Dangerous, yet rewarding. The thrill, the anticipation, the battle, the clash of rapiers. Striding in ornate corridors, a proud pauldron on his shoulder, brothers-in-arms, laughter, games of cards. Captain Tréville shouting at him because he was late, because they had disobeyed, because they were hopeless and would never learn how to behave like proper Musketeers.

Porthos winking even though he tried to act sorry. Aramis putting on a feathered hat, ladies giggling as he paid his respect. Athos brooding, mumbling, providing more advice d'Artagnan had ever received in his life. Three older brothers, the siblings he wished he could have had growing up. The mischief they might have done and the subsequent scolding they would certainly have received.

Life in Lupiac had not been dull when he was a child. He had enjoyed it: the open fields, the animals, the trees he had climbed. It would have been better with others to enjoy it. They would have turned the estate upside down, his father probably angrier than he used to be at d'Artagnan alone. Nursing their injuries together after his father was done with them would have been a better alternative than having to do it by himself.

Although their servants would have said young d'Artagnan alone was enough to brighten up the farm, dogs always on his heels, it was eerily quiet these days. It had shocked him when he had eventually arrived with Constance and Tréville. He had been aware it was attacked the previous year, yet the damage was far greater than what he would have imagined. The picture he had in his mind, the one he hanged on to, it resembled nothing to what it was nowadays.

It was a deserted place, weeds everywhere in the open courtyard, broken down doors, the roof almost non-existent. No one seemed to have set foot in the place for months. It broke his heart a little, even though they were all relieved to have reached their destination without too many pitfalls. It was a miracle in itself. Tréville had said it constantly on their way southward.

D'Artagnan often wondered if it would be safe to attempt to rebuild the farm. His father might have appreciated it. It was a part of his life, his personal history, a place full of memories he was not keen on relinquishing. Would the King send Red Guards here, knowing it was the place one of the disloyal Musketeers had grown up in? Or would he believe it was too obvious of a hiding spot? Would his Majesty take such a risk? Did he even care? D'Artagnan remembered a time, when he had been given his commission, when Louis XIII used to be so proud of his Musketeers. Everything had changed with Rochefort. The young soldier liked to think that he was glad to be rid of them.

The journey had been long, especially for Constance. They had taken a less direct path than Porthos and Aramis, eager to cover their tracks and lose whoever might chase them. As long as the others had not joined them, they would not attempt to desert the farm. They slept inside, on the cold floor, barely daring to light a fire with the exception of cooking. Tréville was growing restless. Of the three of them, he was the least satisfied with the arrangement.

The farm had been their refuge for a little more than a week now. They never wandered into nearby villages, the men hunting and fishing for food. If they stayed longer, they might try to cultivate some crops or vegetables. Constance often mentioned she may enjoy it. At least it was as sunny and warm as d'Artagnan had promised. She enjoyed it there. Her head would snap, eyes worried every time a small noise would startle her. Always terrified that some new catastrophe may befall them. D'Artagnan's warm arms holding her closer at night if she woke up from a nightmare.

One week without any news from Porthos or Aramis, even though they had taken a shorter path. They did not dare speak about the subject, unwilling to share their doubts and fears out loud. Seven nights when d'Artagnan would walk to the end of the road leading to the farm, waiting at the edge of the forest where they had agreed to meet once they would be reunited.

Seven evenings when the young man, alone with his thoughts and only his weapons to clean to keep him busy, would wonder if his explanations had been precise enough. He may have been too hasty in his directions; Aramis may have been too shaken to listen properly. What if they had encountered problems? They were travelling with a baby after all. Many things may take a turn for the worse. Seven dark nights when he would join his two companions with a concerned look on his face, unaccompanied by their friends. Constance hoped the Queen and the Dauphin were fine. It was somewhat impossible to stop using these titles whenever her thoughts turned to them, which was often.

D'Artagnan had prepared for another fruitless watch. Rustling close by made him almost fire his pistol at Porthos once the man had stepped out of the forest where they had been waiting for the youngest.

"God dammit, Porthos!" he blasphemed, fastening his weapon to his belt, relieved to the core. Porthos looked tired, yet there was such a foolish grin on his face. Satisfaction at having scared the other. They hugged, laughing. "You should not sneak on people. It may end badly."

"You should have heard me coming long before you did. You're not a very effective guard." d'Artagnan rolled his eyes.

"Where are Aramis and the Queen?"

"They've stayed behind until it was safe. We were not certain you would be here."

"We've been here for a week already. What held you up?"

"I think we have many things to talk about, my friend. Wait."

Porthos whistled loudly, the signal they had agreed on if it was harmless for his companions to leave the cover of the forest. They had arrived earlier in the afternoon, and waiting while their friends might be in the vicinity had been a torture. The baby had been in quite a discomfort for the last couple of days and they all were at a loss as to how comfort him. Hopefully, staying in the same place and not travelling every day would put him at ease quickly.

Always on edge, never trusting the quiet or peace of their surroundings, always expecting enemies to pounce on them had tired Aramis more than his injury. One arm holding the reins of his horse, the animal being a great help to walk, it was a tremendous relief to see d'Artagnan's familiar face.

Clutching her son tightly to her chest, grateful that he was sleeping for the time being, Anne shared the same feeling. The last fortnight had put a strain on her, ever since they had been attacked by the Red Guards. She was exhausted, yearning for a warm bed and long hours she would not have to spend on horseback. Worrying for Aramis, worrying for Louis, praying each day that they would live to see another night, these were ordeals she wished would cease rapidly.

"I'm so thankful to see you, d'Artagnan." She did not complain as the soldier bowed respectfully. She had somewhat forgotten people were expected to do it.

"So am I, your Majesty." She could not rebuke him. She had no will to do it. It was reassuring to come face to face with a friend, someone who knew her, someone who would protect her and not try to betray her. A person with whom she did not have to pretend to be somebody else.

Aramis breathed loudly next to her, reminding her that his injury was still deeply troubling him, and that it was not good for him to be on his feet for too long. He may well say whatever he pleased, or complain under his breath, she was determined to care for him. Porthos often found it hilarious to watch his best friend being pestered by the former Queen, so resolute and with such fierce eyes Aramis had learnt not to contradict her.

"What happened to you?" d'Artagnan exclaimed when he realized his brother-in-arms was wounded.

"Red Guards."

"All dead, don't worry," Porthos added after he had noticed the look of disbelief the other's cast at them.

"I'll be fine, d'Artagnan. Porthos, here, has been a better surgeon than what you might actually believe."

Porthos glared, but helped him up on his horse nevertheless. He was not about to make him walk all the way to the farm. Aramis sometimes argued he could walk on his own, yet never for long. He would have plenty of time to rest and recover completely soon.

Constance was attempting to clean the inside of the farm which had been overrun by dust and creeping weeds. It was her main task lately, one hard enough to focus her mind on other matters than her missing friends. Tréville was always keeping watch outside, never trusting their position to be safe. It was silent around them, so she heard the unmistakable sound of horses long before they had reached the courtyard.

The three of them appeared to be rather tired, despite their smiles. It shocked her to notice how the Queen had changed. Travelling the length of the country was not a clean affair, but even her dress was in rags. She looked thin, thinner than she had been when they had left the convent. Not a surprise, still a disturbance. A genuine smile on her face as she spotted Constance hurrying towards them. Happiness at finding out the other woman was safe and well. One fierce embrace defying all the rules of decorum.

"I'm so glad to see you," Constance declared after she had let go. "I was afraid you may have suffered some difficulties on the road."

"We have. I've had excellent protectors by my side."

"You were amazing yourself, Anne." She smiled at Porthos, her name coming out more easily lately. He was not even aware of it. Hearing Aramis call her 'Ana' was becoming such a normal feature of their small company that it had started to transpire on him.

Tréville was delighted as well to be reunited with the woman and his soldiers. Although he still resented Aramis, he was perturbed to witness Porthos helping him down from his mount. The story was explained once more on the way inside the building. Constance shuddered at the mention of the Red Guards, then again when she was told they had been slaughtered, that one had dared threaten the Queen and her child.

Anne was pleased by the offer to light a fire in the large room where d'Artagnan had established their quarters. It was rudimentary, no less than what she had been used to these past days. Nothing that should bother her. Although sleep was upon her, she felt much content to finally have reached their destination. There was a quick conversation occurring around her, news being shared, hardship, trivial information, chuckles, scoffs.

Her eyes were focused on her son,the tiredness and perilous adventure was affecting the poor soul more than all of them. He had not been the cheerful and exploring baby he used to be at the beginning. She should have predicted it would not last. Warming her back, sitting on the bare ground, Aramis' cape clasped around her shoulders -or was it Porthos'?-, she was soothing Louis' back. She hoped he would not wake up for hours.

Constance had offered some most-welcome food, Tréville had given her some wine. She heard someone inquiring about what their next action should be. Someone dismissed the thought at once. It would wait until morning. She was indebted to whoever it was. The only problem she wished to settle tonight was to know if Aramis would be able to sleep comfortably. His painful curses from the previous day rang in her ears. Rolling over on his injured leg in his slumber had been quite a horrendous way to be awoken.

"I'll do it myself. I am not a baby," he hissed. Porthos had come with the intention to inspect and clean the wound. Aramis snatched the bottle from his hand, drank some of its content then took care of his thigh. Porthos grumbled, slumping to the floor.

"You could have fooled me," he muttered. D'Artagnan laughed out loud, basking in the joy of having been reunited with two of his brothers-in-arms. If only Athos could be with them, it would have been perfect. As perfect as being traitors may be.

"I should have left the bullet inside. It might have spared us your whining."

"I don't whine," Aramis scoffed, stifling one as the alcohol burnt his flesh.

"This horse is a hindrance. My stirrups are too tight. You should not have stitched it so tight. I may walk by myself. I..."

"Shut your mouth, Porthos."

"Aramis." The soft yet stern rebuke astonished Constance. The way Aramis reacted to the Queen's reproach astonished her further. His eyes relaxed in an instant, adverting from Porthos who had been mocking him to her. There had been more cutting remarks lately, the two friends obviously suffering from the aftermath of the fight with the Red Guards and the weariness of the escape. The first time she had stood up and asked them to put a stop to it, they had stared at her in disbelief, only to rejoice in realizing she was growing so confident in their presence.

His injury aggravated Aramis and even if he tried to control his temper, he did not always succeed. Porthos and Aramis were now used to being interrupted in their arguments. The others were not, the three of them gaping at the former Queen and the soldier who mumbled an apology. Porthos was smirking, winking as d'Artagnan raised a curious eyebrow at the entire situation.

Aramis had spent so much time sleeping at the end of their journey. Anne had been more inclined to talk with Porthos, wishing to become better acquainted with the man risking his life for her sake. There had been long hours of talking, discussions about his past, appalled comments at outrageous catastrophes, comforting words, many stories about the Musketeers, some tales Aramis may not be proud of but that she deemed quite entertaining.

There was so much she was not ashamed of anymore. Small changes: not sitting with her back straight, sleeping on the ground, eating with her fingers, walking barefoot whenever she wished to, cleaning her hands on her own garment, providing comforting touches -a hand on an arm, a shoulder- when they were needed, speaking to soldiers without protocol. Greater changes: sleeping close to a man she loved, one hand in his so he may not rub at his wound, displaying signs of love -kisses, hand on a cheek, hand on his hair- with an audience, speaking Spanish, caring completely and totally for her son.

"How do you like Gascony, Captain?" Aramis asked to change the subject. He may have apologized, he was not sorry for having snapped at his best friend. Porthos deserved it. Tréville glanced at him.

"I would like any place which had to become our refuge the same, I suppose. It's quiet, to put it mildly. And we haven't been visited by Red Guards yet."

"Which is a comfort." d'Artagnan nodded to concur, one arm around Constance's shoulders. They were sitting down by the fire, eyes moving to the window from time to time. Old habits.

"Let's hope it will remain unchanged. I have no desire to fight anytime soon."

"Neither do we."

Aramis drank some more after he had finished focusing on his wound. He glanced at his former Captain as he offered him the remainder of the bottle. It was accepted curtly. They would have to talk, privately, to settle matters. Constance and d'Artagnan did not appear to resent him for his past actions with Anne. Tréville had a different opinion. Starting a new life was not a happy prospect for him.

Aramis was relieved beyond belief to have reached d'Artagnan's estate without more damage. He would have to thank God profusely as soon as he would have recovered enough. He longed to lie down, although it was nice to be reunited with the others. Days, weeks on the road with Anne had shed the last remains of shyness or hesitation they might have toward one another. Ever since their afternoon near the lake, every single gesture they shared was effortless, unashamed, easy as breathing.

He sat down quietly by her side. Anne rested her head on his shoulder. Out of instinct, she grabbed his hand, because she was almost asleep and she had no intention to let him mess with Porthos' needlework. There was a smile on his lips as he kissed the top of her head. How may he confess that he liked her more in a simple way, with dirty hair and dirty cheeks, than when she was engulfed in heavy gowns and intricate hairstyles?

The baby fussed in her arms, but did not wake up. Carefully, she handed him to Aramis so he may lay him comfortably on the floor. He was wrapped in a blue cape, and there was a heavy blanket spread on the cold stones. In front of the fireplace, he would be perfectly well. Aramis kissed his tiny brow softly. There was no fever, a fact he was overjoyed by.

"He's been rather discontent lately. He'll certainly wake us up before dawn. My apologies," he said to the others. Constance was pained at the news, d'Artagnan and Tréville frowned.

"You grow quite used to it," Porthos promised. "Like father, like son, you know?"

He reeled back to avoid the piece of bread Aramis threw in his direction, catching it and eating it smugly. The other glared.

"Bastard."

"Idiot."

So it had come to that, Tréville thought. Porthos was no longer furious at Aramis for his intimacy with the Queen or for having fathered the Dauphin. He was aware it had not been his title for weeks. However, it was difficult to forsake so much, to accept such dramatic changes. Riding with the woman surely had helped Porthos come to terms with the predicament and the mutual decision to run away. The Queen was no more for him. When he addressed her, she was a friend, a companion. Only a faint hint of social hierarchy unwilling to be abandoned.

Porthos protected her, protected his best friend, protected their son. It was a blade to Tréville's heart to have such treacherous thoughts. However, now that he witnessed such natural interactions between Aramis and the woman he had vowed to defend with his life, a kiss on her cheek, Spanish whispers, it looked so pure and complete that it was almost blasphemous to blame them.

Constance's own romantic life was complicated yet growing more evident now that they were hundreds of miles from Paris. The whole turmoil was upsetting, but at least she had d'Artagnan. It comforted her to witness how relaxed the Queen was with Aramis, how happier she seemed to be, amid exhaustion and pain. She had never resented the monarch for her actions, except for her lack of precaution when it came to displaying her infatuation in a few occasions.

Watching her drift to sleep in the soldier's arms, Constance smiled, clutching d'Artagnan's hand. Some good may come out of the most desperate tragedies.