"Life is like a game of cards. The hand you are dealt is determinism; the way you play it is free will."

Jawaharlal Nehru

CHAPTER XXXVI

"What troubles you?" asked Porthos in a low voice, his chest vibrating pleasantly against Denise's ear.

She sighed, and nestled closer against him. "I suppose…I suppose it is how uncertain and transient happiness often is. Granted, that is the nature of our lives of humans, but still…"

"I know exactly what you mean," he murmured. "When my mother was alive, we were dirt poor, but happy…and when she died, it was as if my soul had been shattered. Everything I knew of love and kindness, patience and gentleness…it was gone in an instant."

"Come, let's sit and talk for a bit." Denise took his hand and led him to the thick rug in front of the slate fireplace. He raised an eyebrow at her. "On the floor?"

"Why not?" she replied with a shy smile. "I've never been one for fancy furniture."

"A woman after my own heart," he observed, lowering himself easily to the floor. He held out a hand and drew her down to the rug, then settled her back against his chest. They sat in silence for some time, his arms wrapped around her waist.

As their bodies molded to each other, the warmth of the fire seemed to deepen the intimacy of the moment. "It must have been hard," she whispered, tilting her head back just enough to allow her cheek to brush against his beard.

He instinctively knew she was picking up the thread of the earlier conversation. "No child of five is ever ready to lose his mother, especially when she is the only family he has ever known." As if reading the question in her mind, he continued on, his voice meditative. "Never knew my father. He left before I was born. My mother always said he wasn't a bad man, just wasn't ready for responsibility."

Denise felt the muscles in his arms tense. "When my mother was ill, I used to lie awake at night listenin' to her cough. We lived in a hovel that was really just a lean-to that had been built on to one of the tenements in the roughest part of Paris. There was one mattress, a dirt floor, and absolutely no way to stay warm in the winter. I used to stare at the canvas flap that covered the entrance, imaginin' that my father would come through it one night, just when we needed him most."

He stopped for an instant, steadying his voice. "I used to see the Musketeers on patrol when we crossed the Seine to go into the main part of the city. A lot of the other kids were afraid of them, but I was always just…in awe. They seemed so strong, and noble. I was sure my father was a musketeer, and thought that he would somehow sense how sick Mama was. After all, my mind reasoned, he'd probably realized he'd made a mistake in leavin', and had to have been searchin' for us for some time."

He leaned his cheek against hers, and was quiet for a moment. "Isn't it amazin' how much faith little kids have? I was certain my father was goin' to find us, and when he did, I knew he would move heaven and earth to make sure that my mother got the best care possible."

"I'm so sorry," she whispered, placing her palms on the top of his hands.

"Couldn't be helped," he answered, his voice matter-of-fact. "I had to grow up—fast. But it could have been much, much worse. I was lucky in that I was big for my age, and fast. When my stomach was rumbling with hunger on the third day after my mother had died, I stole a half-rotten apple from a fruit stand in the marketplace. I was starvin', and was way past being scared…all I could think about was food. But when the vendor started to chase me, I held on to that apple for dear life and darted through the square, weaving in between people, horses, and carts. As I flew past an alley, an arm shot out and pulled me into the shadows. That's how I met Charon."

"He was the King of the Court?"

Porthos chuckled. "Nah, he was just a kid like me…but he was streetwise, and the head of the king's junior group of pickpockets. Charon brought me back to the Court, and told the King he thought I had great potential…I was fast, clever, and athletic. That's how my life at the Court of Miracles began. Ironically, Charon did become the King years later."

"Does he still rule there?" Denise felt Porthos still for an instant, then he took a deep breath. "No, he was shot to death some months ago."

"I'm sorry. It seems he was good to you."

"He was," replied Porthos, his voice thoughtful. "But my life had taken me down a different path, and he found that hard to accept—felt I'd turned my back on the Court and its people. Although in the end, he was no different."

Denise instinctively felt there was more to the story, but did not press him. "Well, Porthos du Vallon, I quite like you just the way you are," she whispered, turning her head to give him a sweet smile.

"You do realize that when you look at me that way," he murmured, cupping her face tenderly in one of his big hands, "I have no choice but to kiss you?"

"Do what you must," she breathed. An instant later, his mouth had claimed hers, and Denise surrendered to the exquisite sensation of being cherished by a strong man with a heart of gold.

xxxxxxxxx

"You forget yourself, Milady," growled Rochefort, seizing her arm. "May I remind you, at this point in time your position at court is nothing more than that of a whore, albeit a well-dressed, important one…at least for the moment."

Milady's green eyes turned cold with anger, and in an instant, her grip on the dagger had tightened, and the blade flashed up to meet Rochefort's neck.

"Listen to me, Comte, and listen carefully," she hissed, giving him an icy stare. "You may think you are better than me, but you are not. You may have a title, and you may have land, but your thoughts and desires are as base as those of a thief living in the sewers of Paris. Sadly, you lack the skills and polish to achieve your ends without help. The sooner you realize that you need me—not the other way around—the sooner you will get what you want."

Rochefort's face was white with fury, but he controlled himself with difficulty, and gave a short, bitter laugh. "It seems as if we are cut from the same cloth after all, Milady. So let us cease sparring against each other, and turn our efforts against the real enemy. We may have been thwarted in this instance, but while we are within these walls, there is still a very real chance we can succeed in killing both Athos and the King."

Milady considered his words, then lowered the blade slowly, dragging the metal down the curve of Rochefort's neck. "A truce then. But don't make the mistake of treating me as anything other than an equal. I won't be so forgiving next time."

xxxxx

Athos had almost dozed off again when a soft knock came on the door. He sat up and scrubbed his face with his hands, then wearily got up and went to the door. Opening it, his face paled in shock as he saw the Queen, standing in the dark corridor and clearly unescorted.

"Your Majesty! What are you doing alone at this hour of night?" He bowed quickly, then took her hand and drew her into the room.

"Why does everyone seem to think I cannot navigate a hallway by myself?" she asked, a trifle cross.

Athos sighed, and took her by the hands. "Your Majesty, you must understand that there are many people who love you and fear for your safety...and," he dropped his voice, "not all of them are named Aramis."

She laughed softly, then her face turned serious as she squeezed his hands with her light fingers. "Point well taken, Athos. Your loyalty and discretion are beyond price. But I have come here to inquire after the health of your dear wife. How is she?" Her eyes swung to the bed, and she stifled a gasp as she saw how pale Charlotte looked. The woman shifted slightly in her sleep, and moaned in pain.

Athos was by her side in an instant. His gentle hand stroked her hair as he murmured a few words in her ear, then softly kissed her forehead. She quieted instantly at his touch. When he turned back to the Queen, he saw that her eyes were glistening with tears. "What an incredible thing to be able to be free. To be sure, I have led a privileged life, but I have never had the experience of being free to love, free to…" she choked up, and drew out an embroidered handkerchief from the folds of her cloak.

As Athos took a tentative step towards her, she composed herself with difficulty. "You must excuse me, Athos. It has been a long and tiring day. I came here to offer my prayers and best wishes for you and Charlotte, not to feel sorry for myself."

"I understand," he said simply, and she knew instinctively that he did.

"May I speak with her?" she asked, her blue eyes full of compassion.

"Of course."

The Queen moved over to the bed, and sat down in the chair next to the bed, taking one of Charlotte's hands carefully in her own. "Charlotte, it's Anne. I am glad to see you warm and well cared for…as I knew you would be by your darling husband and his friends. I know I don't have to tell you how precious it is to love—and be loved by someone-for all the right reasons. Some day, you and Athos will have a beautiful house with a lovely garden, with squealing, laughing children…and when the palace gets too much for me, I shall slip away to come visit and drink in the glow of your happiness. So take your time, rest, and recover. You have a wonderful life ahead of you with a good man…a brave, kind man who loves you with all his heart. Be well, Charlotte."

She reached out and gently smoothed back a stray lock of hair from the injured woman's face, then stood up and turned to see Athos, his face stricken. She went to him, and took his hands in her own. "She will heal. I am certain of it."

"You have no idea how grateful I am for your compassion," he replied, his voice husky with emotion. "But know that you have no more loyal subject in all of France."

Next time...Treville does not have an easy night with d'Artagnan.

Apologies for the slow update...work has been hectic. I so appreciate all the support, whether in the form of a view, review, or favorite, for this story. I have found that writing gives me a lot of joy, so a big hug to all of you who are coming along for the ride!