Porthos disliked being out of uniform. He disliked the lack of respect from people. He disliked the way the people of Paris either deliberately tried to provoke him or deliberately shunned him. Porthos wondered if he was a little bit vain. His uniform, which marked him out as one of the King's Musketeers, did give him a status that was unattainable to many. But Porthos had earned the right to wear the pauldron and uniform of a Musketeer.

It also meant he sometimes had to work undercover and pretend he was not a soldier. Which was what he was doing at that particular moment. He might have been pretending outwardly that he was merely a man walking with a woman through the city. But he was a soldier acting as close protection for the Queen of France. The Queen wanted to see for herself the poverty that some of her husband's subjects were living in.

The King had chuckled when she requested, realising she was serious. He shook his head with a wry smile and pointed at Porthos, who happened to be on duty at that moment. The King had instructed him to look after his wife or face the consequences. The King had dismissed his courtiers as the Queen left the room. Dismissed all the courtiers but his current conniving mistress. Porthos had numbly followed his Queen, hoping she would change her mind.

She did not.

She wanted to see the city from the ground. And she wanted to see it with minimal protection, she wanted to blend in. Which was where Porthos had become the best man for the job.

What the Queen did not know was that they were not entirely alone. Although Porthos was sure they would not have any issues he was not going to be complacent. Athos, Aramis and d'Artagnan, also all out of uniform, were with them. But the Queen did not know. And she was not going to know either.

Porthos had spotted Aramis ahead of them, stopping every so often and glancing back to be sure they were still walking on the route the four of them had picked out. Athos was discreetly following several yards behind. And d'Artagnan, disguised with an old cloak and a shuffling step was walking much closer, able to listen in to the Queen's words, ready to relay any changes to the others.

'Could we visit your court?' asked the Queen.

Porthos shook his head, 'I'm sorry, majesty, I know I am supposed to be your servant, but I cannot allow you to go there. I would be recognised - probably before you would be - and I am not welcome there.'

The thought of taking the monarch's wife into the Court of Miracles, a place where the unwanted and unwelcome reined under their own rules was not something Porthos was willing to contemplate. The Queen nodded her understanding.

She paused before continuing, 'please call me Anne,' she said. 'If you are overheard - '

'Thank you,' replied Porthos.

They walked on a little further. Anne paused to look at the wears on sale at a stall. Hard-wearing fabrics, ready to be made into clothes for the working classes. Anne ran her delicate fingers over the cloth. The stall holder furrowed his brows and looked at her piercingly.

'You buying or not?'

Anne looked up, startled at the gruff nature of the man. She shook her head.

'Sorry, monsieur.'

'Move on then, I got people waiting.'

Porthos gently guided his mistress away, she did not resist. Porthos wondered if she was starting to realise how different the world outside the Palace was. It was not the first time she had been amongst the people, but generally, she was well guarded, and the people were being kept back. Now she was in close contact, brushing against people she would never normally meet.

'What are you hoping to learn?' asked Porthos.

Anne took several seconds to reply, 'what it is to be a Parisian. To be out here. To work.'

'You already work, maj- Anne,' said Porthos. 'You have one of the hardest jobs.'

Anne looked up and smiled, 'I understand what you are trying to say, Porthos, but I do not know what life is like for the people I serve. I am not just a wife and mother. I am a servant to these people as well. I should learn how they live so that I can represent them to my husband.'

Porthos nodded his approval, 'a noble sentiment. Even if I do not agree with your method of learning.'

'Porthos, I have pulled rank on you, you will help me to learn.'

Porthos could not help a smile and a nod. The Queen had a mischievous look, she was not one to sit idly by. Where she could, she was her own woman, making her own decisions. Porthos did admire that about her.

'I want to see the poor people, Porthos,' said Anne. 'Show me the ones that have nothing, I need to understand how they live.'

Porthos nodded and indicated a side street, 'there'll be people along there. But please, Anne, do not engage with them. Observe them and walk past them. It is too dangerous.'

She nodded her understanding and rested her hand on his arm for a few seconds, 'I will not put myself in danger. I know you will be the one who is punished if anything happens to me, despite it being my choice to be here.'

'I would deserve any reprimand that was handed out if anything happened to you,' replied Porthos earning himself another smile from the Queen.

She led the way towards the entrance of the street. As they turned into the darker road, Porthos caught Aramis' eye. His friend was watching them from behind a wooden set of steps a few yards away, he made a gesture to indicate that he would get ahead of them by circling the buildings and waiting at the other end. D'Artagnan was also hurrying forward to join him.

The Queen was a couple of yards ahead of Porthos. She was looking towards the shadows, the recessed doorways and any shadowed area. She had asked Porthos as they walked through the city where the homeless spent the night. He drew on his own time as a street dweller explaining the best spots and the fights that would break out for sheltered areas. Now she was using the knowledge to spot the current inhabitants of those spots.

A slight movement in a corner drew her interest. Despite Porthos' warning, she took a few steps closer. Porthos intercepted her and put himself between the unfortunate sole huddled in the corner looking up at them with wide eyes made brighter by the dirt on their cheeks. Porthos could not tell if the child was a boy or a girl, but they were small and young. And potentially dangerous to the Queen who would not appreciate how feral street people could be.

How feral Porthos had been at that age.

'Sorry,' murmured the Queen as she stepped back.

The child made themselves smaller, burying their face, and hiding their bright, scared eyes.

'These are desperate people, if they think you are trying to take what few possessions, they have they will fight you. Even the weak, the young, and the old. They will fight for a scrap of cloth, for a stale piece of bread.'

Anne was pale, the stark realities of the city she called home were a shock to her. The type of street they were walking along would have been described to her and the other courtiers. But a romanticised description and the reality were very different.

Noises ahead caused them both to stop. A set of double doors were pushed open. A stream of men poured out. They turned towards Porthos and the Queen. The men were angry, they were shouting, punching the air. Anne gasped and stepped away from Porthos who had to be quick to reach her before they were separated by the tide of people. He put himself in front of her, shielding her as best he could. The street was filled with men. Porthos was jostled and knocked as the men went past. He was in danger of being swept away from the Queen. Porthos could not allow that, throwing protocol to the side, he slipped his arm around her waist and propelled her to the side of the street, she did not resist him. Porthos saw real fear in her eyes.

Another man knocked into him, and Porthos could not help but mutter under his breath. The man heard him and turned; his face filled with anger. Porthos pushed the Queen closer to the wall, putting her behind him as the man swung a punch at him. Knowing he could not let go of the Queen, Porthos allowed the punch to land. The first connected with his cheek causing his head to snap to the left, and a second punch to his side left him winded, struggling to breathe. He readied himself to be hit again but no third punch landed.

The stream of men was still coming from the doors. Porthos knew they could not stay where they were, and he would not be able to get them both through the flow of angry men. He glanced around.

'There,' said Anne, pointing at one of the recessed doorways.

The door was ajar.

Porthos knew it was a risk, but it was one he was willing to take. He ushered the Queen forward; she hitched up the dark cape she was wearing and moved with haste. With one hand at the small of her back and the other resting on his side where he was punched, Porthos followed her.

Anne pulled the door open herself, hesitating for a moment as her eyes adjusted to the dim light then stepped inside. Porthos pulled the door closed behind them, glancing back to be sure none of the angry men was following them.

'What were they doing?' asked Anne, who looked small and frightened.

Porthos stepped back from the door and began to look around the room. As he pushed open an ancient window to allow some light into the room, he answered her as honestly as he could.

'I don't know for sure, but I suspect they are protesting about something. Taxes, conditions. That building they came out of, could have been a meeting point. Someone's got them riled up about something. They'll probably -'

He stopped talking as the Queen rushed up to him and tried to pry at the hand he had on his side.

'You're bleeding.'

Porthos looked down, taking in the smudges of blood on Anne's gloves. He looked at his glove, the slick dampness confirming what he already knew.

'I thought he'd punched me,' he said.

Anne's eyes went wide, 'he stabbed you?'

Porthos nodded. His mind raced. He had been injured, potentially mortally and he was escorting the Queen of France. Her safety was in jeopardy. Somewhere at the back of his mind, he knew he should spare a thought for himself, but the soldier in him could not allow such trivialities to cloud his judgement at that moment.

But Anne had other ideas.

'You should sit,' she commanded, her hands on his arms trying to guide him to the floor.

'I need to get you to safety,' said Porthos who resisted her.

'No, Porthos,' she replied, using the tone she had for courtiers who irritated her. 'You should sit. You have been injured. You are no good to me unconscious or bleeding to death.'

Porthos allowed her to push him down. He leaned against the wall under the window. Anne paused for a moment peering out.

'They are still walking past. We cannot leave yet anyway. How long will it take the others to find us?'

Porthos looked at her. She smiled.

'I know you are not the only one protecting me. Don't worry, I did not see them, but I know they are out there.'

'Athos was behind us; he's probably struggling to get along the road. Aramis was ahead, he and d'Artagnan were going to circle around and watch the other end of the road. It might take them a few minutes to realise what's happened. And then they'll have to search.'

Anne nodded, she gathered her skirts and sank to her knees. She reached out to Porthos' hand, trying to peel it away from his side.

'What should I do?'

Porthos shook his head, 'it's fine, majesty, once you're safe, I'll clean it up.'

She shook her head and laughed, 'and what if you die before you get that chance?'

Porthos could not come up with a response.

'There's a red guardsman at the palace,' the Queen continued, 'one of the more friendly ones who talk to me sometimes. Only when no one else is around. But he's been in battles. I asked him about the injuries that soldiers sustain. He told me, with honesty. He told me how quickly a man can die if a wound is not dealt with.'

Porthos stopped resisting her. She looked at the spot where the blood was staining the leather for a few seconds before she began to unbutton his doublet. Porthos shifted slightly.

'No one will know,' she said. 'Let me help you. If you are incapacitated, who will keep me safe?'

She continued to unbutton his doublet and pushed the garment aside. Porthos' blood-stained shirt was revealed. He tugged at the fabric pulling it loose from his breeches. At the same time, the Queen pulled her gloves off. She pressed at the wound causing Porthos to hiss.

'Something needs to be pressed against it to stop the bleeding.'

Anne nodded, she pulled at his shirt a little before bunching it up and using it to push on the wound. Porthos hissed again.

'Sorry,' she said.

Porthos took a few quick breaths before he was settled. He rested his hand over her.

'I can do it,' he said.

She smiled and allowed him to take over. She remained where she was, one hand stretched out, covering his.

'It is bad?'

Porthos blinked a couple of times and took another deep breath as he fought off a wave of nausea. He shook his head.

'I don't think it is too deep. Provided it's cleaned and dressed soon, I should be fine.'

'Should be?'

Porthos managed a pained smile, 'there is always the risk of infection.'

Anne nodded her understanding, 'they won't be long,' she said. 'Then Aramis can tend to you.'

Porthos huffed before wincing.

The Queen looked at him with a quizzical expression. Porthos could not hide the embarrassment he felt.

'You can be honest,' she said.

'Aramis won't know what to do, he'll be worried about your safety as much as wanting to look after me.'

Porthos could see a slight tinge of colour on the Queen's pale cheeks.

'I will order him to look after you. Athos and d'Artagnan can escort me back to the Palace.'

'They should all escort you back.'

'No. I will not see you abandoned,' said Anne. 'And I order you to stop suggesting it.'

She smiled at him. Porthos managed a nod and a smile back.

The End.

Whumpee: Porthos. Featuring: The Queen.