Five months earlier – Fall –


Constance Bonacieux clasped her mistress' hand in hers, hoping her grip would provide some comfort—however small—in the moments before Minister Tréville and his most trusted musketeers arrived.

Tensions were high after the death of King Louis earlier that week, without an heir and the regency now thrown into question by the crown's enemies who did not want a Spanish queen on the throne. Louis' passing had been expected, but Anne's seeming lack of interest in her own personal safety and security was a growing source of concern for Constance. The queen ate little, spoke in monosyllables and gave no instructions for her own dress or appearance.

Earlier, they had received a message from Tréville requesting an audience with advice on how they should proceed with a plan for a course of action in the hours and days to come. The throne room seemed vast and empty with only the two of them—Anne had sent her other ladies away—and though they knew it was guarded outside, Constance felt relief when the doors opened to admit Tréville and his four musketeers (one of them particularly hers.) But she could not think of personal connections now, she was here in this moment purely to serve the queen, and she allowed herself only the swiftest of nods when d'Artagnan met her eyes as they lined up behind Tréville, a few paces away from where Anne and Constance were standing.

"Er..." Constance cleared her throat, after they had all bowed and when Anne did not immediately move to speak. "We—appreciate your particular loyalty in this...time of grief and unrest." She hoped she was saying the right things. She didn't want to be presumptuous, but she felt by the pressure of Anne's hand in hers, that the queen was essentially willing her to be her voice for the moment.

Tréville inclined his head. "Thank you for receiving us. Unfortunately, it is indeed a time not only for grieving, but for making difficult decisions, your Majesty. Madame. There is much unrest in the streets—"

"Do the people hate me so?" Anne spoke now, but with resignation rather than anger.

"They do not hate you, Majesty," Tréville was quick to reassure, and Constance noted in the same moment that Athos gestured ever so slightly towards Aramis' arm, as if to forestall him reacting.

Anne's hand was cold in her own. Constance took a breath and let her eyes drift to d'Artagnan. His face was poised, professional concern, his eyes asking if she herself was all right. Do not let yourself become distracted. They had seen so little of each other in the weeks since her own husband had died, there had been no time for long conversations about their feelings, their future, and there was still so much unsaid...and so much that would have to remain unsaid until more important matters were established...

Tréville was talking now, expounding on the precariousness of the various political alignments, and she tried to focus on his words, on his earnest, trustworthy face. She glanced at Anne, wondering if the queen was taking in any more of this than she was. Anne's eyes had held no shine for some time now. She might or might not have been feeling sorrow for the loss of her husband—Constance truthfully did not know—but she was certainly in some form of shock. Perhaps compounded by guilt. Constance suspected Anne's feelings mirrored her own after M. Bonacieux's death. And now while they were both reduced to mere women by the passing of their husbands, Anne's safety was compromised into the bargain. Constance felt the injustice of this like a fire in her belly, a sourness in her chest. She squeezed the queen's hand so hard that Anne let out an inadvertent whimper of surprise.

"Majesty. Madame Bonacieux." Tréville sounded expectant.

She tried to recall what he had just said. "Leave Paris?"

"To a place of safety," Tréville repeated, holding out a hand. "It won't be permanent—just until such time as it is..."

"You cannot guarantee our security here in the palace?" Constance asked.

He hesitated for half a breath; she liked the way all the musketeers' hands were on the hilts of their swords, as though danger were imminent in that very instant. "Since I fear that the command of the red guards may be compromised, no."

"Louis trusted you," Anne said, after a moment of silence. "And I trust you, all of you. Everyone in this room. If you believe this to be the best course of action at this time, then I will follow it."

Tréville inclined his head again.

Anne turned to Constance, clasping her other hand on top. "I could not ask you to come with me into secrecy, to leave everything."

"Nonsense, your Majesty. I wouldn't think of letting you go unattended." They had both meant to speak quietly, but the men had heard the exchange nevertheless. Constance felt d'Artagnan's gaze burning into her, but knew he would not—could not—object without compromising his role, his duty. And she wouldn't have wanted him to. She was grateful he had the sense (or restraint) to stay silent where he was.

Anne released her hands. "Thank you, Constance. And all of you," she turned back to the others. "You have my lasting gratitude, no matter what happens."

"Nothing will happen to you, your Majesty," Aramis said. "We will see to that."

Anne dropped her eyes, acknowledging the statement without speaking.

"I suggest that preparations be made in all haste," Tréville said. "I will arrange a small escort for departure under cover of night." He glanced at Athos, who nodded imperceptibly.

"We will attend you later," Athos said. "The plainest clothes, Mme. Bonacieux," he instructed Constance, who nodded, already aware that their best chance in escaping the palace undetected lay in appearing utterly unremarkable.

They bowed, and the women withdrew, closing the doors on the outer room. They heard the men's voices rising immediately beyond, and Tréville barking a command, and then Constance took Anne's arm and guided her away down the hall towards her own rooms.

"Do not worry, Anne," she said. She had taking to using the queen's name in private, and now, it was fortunate, as it would have to become a habit henceforth. "All will be well. You should rest, now, while I gather what we must bring—" She had plenty of common clothing set aside, older things she could not bear to discard when so many were in need, even though her own wardrobe had long ago been updated to reflect her position at court.

"Yes," Anne said. "I suppose I ought to rest if we travel tonight." She sat down on a brocaded chair, folding her hands in her lap. She looked so vague and lost that Constance felt a stab of worry. "Shall I send another maid to sit with you while I make ready?"

Anne shook her head, and so Constance withdrew.


Tréville waited, while Athos held up his hands and said, "I cannot spare all of you, I can scarcely spare any of you."

"Me," d'Artagnan, said, almost violently.

"And me." Aramis was right beside him. Porthos stood behind, maintaining his composure, the least emotionally involved and thus probably the best for Athos to send, but he didn't think it would be possible to deny the two who faced him now, both sets of eyes like dark brandy, equally intense.

He and Porthos should be the ones to go, he knew that, intellectually. Or Porthos and another trusted musketeer or two while he dealt with this pair—

"Athos." Aramis uttered his name just before d'Artagnan burst out with the more respectful but no less demanding "Captain."

"Yes. I heard you both." He said it gently, to counteract their urgency. And then he stared a moment longer, first at one, then the other, asking without words, Can you perform this task without compromising them, without compromising yourselves?

Their faces were both answering yes—he just didn't know if he believed them.

"Very well."

Both exhaled breath audibly.

Tréville's look also spoke to Athos: I'll trust your judgment, but if they fail, the failure will be on all our heads.


D'Artagnan left the others and went to find Constance. He wasn't supposed to access the palace's private passageways except in a case of emergency, which he considered this was. He had to deal with a red guard or two on the way until he finally found her. She was folding clothes into a satchel and whirled when he pushed open the doors. "How did you—" Self-consciously, she batted a curl out of her eyes.

He came to her, a flurry of words in his mind that he had thought to say upon sight but when he stopped short, all he could say was, "I'm taking you."

"I couldn't leave her," Constance said. He saw the white line of her throat move as she swallowed. "Not when we have been through so much together. I couldn't leave her now."

"What about us?" He knew it was a selfish thing to say, but at least he tried to make his tone come out even, neither fierce nor sad, because that would not change her mind—she was too stubborn for that, too strong, it was one of the reasons he loved her.

"I don't know what else to do."

"I want you safe, Constance." He pulled her towards him, at first tentatively, then when she didn't resist, harder, taking her hands, pressing a kiss on them.

"You should go," she whispered, returning his embrace for just a moment, not long enough. "You've your own preparations to make—"

He nodded, hating to leave her there, hating to be separated for any more time now until the inevitable, but he had to catch up with Athos and the others. A part of him feared they would go without him, somehow leave him behind—Athos wouldn't betray him like that, but it wasn't a rational fear now, all he could think about was having her taken away from him to somewhere he knew not. That could not happen. He pressed his lips against her hand one last time and turned, hearing her breath catch, and it was the hardest thing to ignore it, to go back through the doors and hear them close, separating them.


Making out anyone's expression in the darkness, much less clearly identifying them, would have been difficult as the two musketeers conducted their wards swiftly and silently out of the palace. The women were cloaked and hooded, their forms seeming all the slighter for the voluminous garb enveloping them. Aramis had his hand on the queen's elbow, and though not a word had passed between any of them yet, he hoped the gentle pressure was some comfort to her. He had no idea what she might be feeling. All he could see was an occasional flash of the pale skin of her face as they moved.

She stumbled, once, as they went down a set of darkened stairs, and he caught her, pulling her to his side while she regained her balance. Further down, d'Artagnan and Constance stopped, but Aramis waved them ahead. He held Anne around the waist for just a few moments, feeling her tremble, hearing her in-drawn breaths. The proximity was too much, not enough. He sent a quick prayer up to heaven that he could do this, all of it—the protecting, staying until they were safe, leaving, returning to life without her just as it had been before, without this tantalizing taste.

There was a moon draped in clouds, so that they were shadowed when they reached the grounds, mounted the four waiting horses and cantered away. D'Artagnan continued to lead, with Constance—a confident rider—close behind—and the queen following, with Aramis concluding their party. Athos had wanted to send two more men, but they'd argued against it, agreed in the end on having the others follow later, with more already dispatched to their initial destination, a village a few days' north of Paris. The plan was to ride through this first night, if the women could manage (there had been no opportunity to ask, but Aramis hoped they'd had the sense to rest as much as possible earlier), and take an extended break at dawn.

Of course, the horses needed to rest periodically before then, and once they were well away from the lights of Paris and within the shelter of a heavily wooded forest, d'Artagnan pulled up, signaling to the rest of them.

Aramis dismounted, patting his tired mount, then gathered the reins and came to Anne, reaching out to help her down. She was waiting, not, he suspected, out of desire to maintain her station, but out of fatigue, a suspicion that was confirmed when she fairly tumbled into his arms, her horse sidestepping away.

"It's all right," he said, conscious of speaking for the first time. "Here. Sit," almost adding, "your majesty" out of habit. She leaned on his arm as he helped her to the ground before moving the horses to the side. D'Artagnan and Constance were dark shadows, already seated, his arm around her shoulders.

Aramis offered Anne some water. She accepted.

"Thank you," she said, eventually, and drew back her hood. He was startled to see how vulnerable she appeared with her hair down and loose, like the country maiden she was now supposed to be.

"Did you rest, earlier?"

"A little. I could not actually sleep. My mind was too busy."

"Of course." He did not know whether he ought to say something, offer some form of condolences, about the passing of the King. He thought not. But perhaps she was wondering why he did not volunteer something along those lines and thought him a brute for it. He gazed at her profile.

"Where are you taking us?"

"First, to Vouet," he named the small village, "then onward. I'm afraid it will be a tiring journey, my lady."

"It would be far more of an ordeal if it were not you and d'Artagnan bringing us. I am truly grateful for you both." She turned her head to look at him, her eyes luminous in the temporary moonlight.

"Save your gratitude until I have you safe," he told her, not entirely lightly.

"That is not what you said in front of your captain, and the minister. Do you doubt your decision now?" She had a tiny smile on her lips.

"No," he said, "never."

"Your own competence, then."

She was trying to tease, and he appreciated it, it made him smile now too, because she was so woefully inexperienced at dancing with words that her efforts charmed him. He laughed a little, ruefully. "I hope I have never given you reason to doubt my competence."

"I would say that you have not." Anne tilted her head so that a length of hair fell forwards, and he had difficulty resisting the impulse to tuck it back.

"Or my loyalty."

"Nor that." Her expression seemed to grow more serious.

He pulled off his hat and ran a hand through his own hair, just to prevent himself from touching her. "We should—press on."

"So soon? A few more moments."

"We must go," he said. D'Artagnan, too, was rising, collecting the horses from where they had drifted a dozen paces away in the interim. Aramis reached for Anne's hand again, and helped her back up on the horse. They set out again through the forest, nudging the horses back into a trot.


By morning—even before its first faint light, the moon still visible—the women were drooping dangerously on their mounts, and D'Artagnan gestured back to Aramis to stop once they reached a stretch of rock outcroppings that would provide good shelter.

"Do you want to eat?" he asked Constance as he lifted her down (pulled her off, really). She shook her head, eyes already lidding. He swept her up, carried her to the base of a large rock and laid her down, wrapped in her cloak, where she curled up at once. Aramis was escorting the white-faced, similarly exhausted queen to Constance's side. The men stood for a few moments looking down at them.

"Long night," Aramis observed.

"If you stand watch, I'll tend to the horses." D'Artagnan rotated his neck, feeling the muscles beginning to stiffen. Leading a party while staying alert to any danger was hard enough during the day, to say nothing of doing so in partial darkness. He didn't know that he'd be able to sleep while Aramis took first watch, but he wanted to close his eyes and not move at the very least.

But the animals had to be watered and tethered, so he took the time to do that first. When he returned to the rocks, Aramis had settled near the women, musket propped at the ready.

"Are they asleep?" His question was rhetorical, as both were motionless except for the rise and fall of curved shoulder and draped sides.

Aramis nodded unnecessarily anyway. "You should too."

"Mm." He sank down near Constance, close enough that he could reach over and touch her, but still leaving a respectful, not too presumptuous space. Not only had they not yet spent the night in each other's company, this was hardly how he'd envisioned falling asleep together for the first time. He pulled off his gloves and leaned over her to ease them under her head, to provide some cushioning. She shifted, fractionally, but did not stir.

Aramis was watching them. He smiled when d'Artagnan glanced up.

"What?"

"Nothing."

D'Artagnan elevated an expressive eyebrow.

"It's just with gestures like that you seem more of a gentleman than a Gascon, that's all."

D'Artagnan looked around as if in search of something to toss at him, then sighed. "Of all times to make a crack about where I come from."

"I am not disapproving," Aramis said, "and the lady is very well worth your trouble."

Almost irrelevantly d'Artagnan asked, "Are you sure we can do this?"

"Why is everyone doubting us when nothing has gone wrong?"

"Yet."

Aramis put palms up to the sky.

"Not everyone has your faith, perhaps that's why." D'Artagnan picked up a stick and traced a rough fleur-de-lis in the dirt, then scuffed it out with his boot.

"I won't apologize for my faith," Aramis said. "Faith in God...faith in myself...it has stood me in good stead."

"But you returned to musketeering."

"Because I wanted to be a soldier more than I wanted to be a monk. It didn't mean I deserted my belief altogether."

There was silence between them for a few moments. "No one saw us leave," Aramis pointed out. "No one's following us, the others are making sure of that. And we'll be met when we get to Vouet. The weather is fine. Everything is proceeding as it should."

"Our king is dead," d'Artagnan muttered. "And we're taking our queen into hiding. Who we need to stop thinking of as the queen."

"I don't think of her as the queen."

"Yes, well, that's probably why—" He cut himself off, unsure if Aramis would take actual offence if he were to finish the statement.

"You can say it," Aramis said, in what was more than likely a deceptive tone of genial encouragement.

"Never mind."

"Ah, d'Artagnan. Are you afraid I'll be angry?"

"I feel that if we're going to have words with each other, now is perhaps not the most ideal time."

"As you say. Also, you should be resting."

"Indeed." He closed his eyes and leaned back against the rock. "Wake me, if you hear anything."

Silence, and he drifted off into the deeper quiet of sleep.