A breeze stirring the folds of cloak across her face caused Constance to wake. She lifted her head and saw d'Artagnan's gloves that had been her pillow. She angled her neck to look at the sky above, which was clouded, but the light suggested midday.
She struggled upright. The men both moved, expectantly.
Anne was still motionless. Constance touched her shoulder, more for reassurance than to wake her, but Anne shifted too then, and sat upright sleepily, her cloak falling from her head. Constance was aware how dishevelled they both were. She pushed curls out of her face, conscious of pressing needs. A shared glance with Anne indicated mutual necessity. They stood. Aramis and D'Artagnan also stood with raised eyebrows.
"We have needs...to which we must attend," Constance said, lifting her chin.
"Ah." D'Artagnan held out his pistol. "There is a stream, just beyond."
"Don't be long, for the love of God," Aramis said. He withdrew and flipped a dagger around, holding it by the blade to Anne, who stared at it for a moment. Constance took the offered pistol first, thankful that she'd had the presence of mind to insist on d'Artagnan teaching her how to use it weeks ago. After another moment, Anne accepted the dagger. Constance took her arm and they walked together away from the rocks, glancing back to see the men watching them. Well, the scrutiny was something they would have to get used to.
"Did you sleep well, Anne?"
"As well as can be expected. The ground is no featherbed," her erstwhile mistress admitted with a brave laugh.
"True, although after all that time on the horse, I was glad merely not to be moving," Constance agreed. She remembered waking once or twice and opening her eyes to see d'Artagnan close by, just out of reach; it had been hard not to stretch out her hand and touch him, only for comfort, perhaps even for warmth, but in the end she'd closed her eyes again and fallen back to sleep.
"As was I." Anne was accustomed to riding for leisure, as was Constance, but neither of them had experienced anything quite as demanding as the previous night's journey through the woods and fields.
The source of water was easy to find, at the bottom of a low slope to the west, and despite Aramis' injunction not to dawdle, they lingered a little longer than strictly necessary. Constance knelt by the pebbles at the stream's edge, laying the pistol beside her, and scooped a handful to drink and wash her face. The cold was invigorating against her tired eyes. Anne did the same, and they smiled at each other, at the unfamiliarity of it all, the uncertainty, and yet the companionship found in this moment when they were merely two women with trailing hair and muddy cloaks, not servant and queen.
D'Artagnan was waiting for them at the top of the hill, his posture visibly easing once he saw them approach.
"I did have your pistol," Constance murmured, as they drew close, "and I do remember how to use it."
"You took the devil of a long time," he chided.
She stopped herself from arguing that soon enough they would be on their own to look after themselves—that the very presence of watchmen would engender suspicion in whichever settlement they found themselves trying to survive in.
They rejoined Aramis, and Constance, after confirming that they could take a few moments for sustenance before continuing on their journey, dug out bread and cheese from her supplies and passed it round. Anne pretended to eat. Constance couldn't decide whether to call attention to it in front of the men, or not. She knew Aramis had noticed anyway (it was completely obvious to her, and had been for some time, that he rarely took his eyes from Anne, even when he appeared not to be doing so.) The men finished their breakfast quickly and took turns disappearing into the woods for a few moments before indicating it was time to once again get underway.
Atop the horse—shifting to try to find a comfortable position, given how stiff every part of her felt from yesterday's travel—Constance inquired, "Do we ride through this night?"
"No, we cover as much ground as possible today, now that we're away from the city, and stop at dark," Aramis answered, circling his horse who was sidestepping in its impatience to be going.
"Let us know when you want to rest," d'Artagnan added, "We're likely just to keep going, otherwise." Constance knew he meant to be courteous rather than imply that they were a liability, but she sat straighter in her saddle anyway, even though it hurt.
"And if you are tired," she was unable to resist saying, especially since she'd swallowed his earlier comment about them taking too much time, "please feel free to call for a pause."
D'Artagnan exchanged a look with Aramis. Fortunately it was an undecipherable one, because if it had seemed indulgent, or if one of them had smiled, Constance might have been forced to take offence. Anne sat, subdued, on her mount and waited. Aramis took the lead, clucking to his horse and starting out, and after a moment Anne followed.
D'Artagnan smiled now at Constance, politely. "Shall we?" He gestured for her to go ahead.
She narrowed her eyes at him for a moment, then relented, inclining her head before urging her horse after Anne's departing one.
Aside from the King's personal hunting grounds, through which she had ridden widely and often, what little Anne had seen of the French countryside had been from the viewpoint of a narrow carriage window on the infrequent occasions when travel called for it—Christmas spent at a different estate, or some such seasonal trip. This journey felt overwhelming in every aspect.
She did not know if what she was feeling since the the death of Louis was grief or not. No one had pressed her to put it into words, not even Constance—perhaps Constance was the least likely to press her, having lost her own husband—and there was no one, now, with whom she could talk about it, even had she wanted to. Her lips must remain silent on so many subjects, if she was to be safe.
And she was used to keeping secrets. That would be no great hardship. Hadn't she kept the secret of her liaison with Aramis safe, all this time? So safe, in fact, that at times she almost forgot that it had happened at all? It seemed more like a fantasy created in her mind than something that had involved their human forms, especially when weeks, months would go by before they ever caught a glimpse of each other, and never alone. Now, if she was honest, she had to admit that the seal on that secret felt fragile, now when he was at her side, now when she could see him ahead, every moment throughout this long day. Any time they spent together in close contact was fraught with danger, she knew that. Having Constance and D'Artagnan was some help, but it might not be enough. All Anne knew for certain that day as they rode further north was that her will felt frail as an unused muscle, and she did not wish to have to exercise it in any capacity. She let Constance put food in front of her, let Aramis put his hands on her waist to help her off and on the horse, let any of them decide when it was time to stop and rest. She did not want to command, or even request.
This unassertiveness proved to become a problem more quickly than she anticipated when, by mid-afternoon, and some time since their last break, Anne became aware of dark patches creeping into her vision. For a few moments she continued numbly to ride, lulled by the cantering of the horse, and she tried to call out to Aramis who would certainly have turned, had her voice functioned, but she could not tell if she had successfully uttered a sound or not. Without intending to, she pulled back too hard on the reins, and the horse, a well-trained animal who thus far had been perfectly responsive to her directions, came to a sharp stop and unseated her.
Anne had not been thrown from a horse since she was a girl, and even now, it was more of a tumble, made only the more alarming by the fact that she could hardly see as she fell, and the ground met her with uncompromising force, knocking the air from her chest so that she suddenly could not breathe, either.
Her senses overwhelmed—black in front of her eyes, choking as she struggled to breathe, pain in her arm, and voices, the horses whinnying as they grouped, and the thud of the others dismounting. "Anne!" Constance's concern, the scent of Aramis' leather as she felt his arm cradling her head, felt his breath warm near her face—but she still couldn't see, nor breathe, God help her—and then she was gasping and the air returned to her lungs, and it tasted so sweet she wondered dimly why she was not always this grateful for it.
She heard Aramis, his voice catching as he said her name and gripped her cold fingers, and she tried to reassure them she was all right, but she still couldn't speak. The black in her vision was buzzing like a swarm of clouding flies; if she blinked enough would they dispel? Aramis was holding her like a child now, she felt her head lolling against his chest and she tried to inhale and exhale, against the surging nausea in her stomach. She gripped at his chest, encountering a handful of buckles, and then, blessedly, all their faces came into view: Constance's furrowed white brow, d'Artagnan standing over all of them in the background blocking the light, and Aramis' brown eyes intent with worry.
Her neck hurt when she tipped it back, so she lowered her chin again, embarrassed, and murmured past a dry throat, "I believe I am all right."
"Some water," d'Artagnan suggested, passing Constance a container.
"What happened?" Aramis took her hand again, warming it in his.
"I am not sure. I could not see, suddenly."
"But you can now?" His eyes, into hers. She couldn't help but smile in relief. "Yes."
"You haven't eaten," Constance said, breathing out a sigh, helping Anne to drink a little. "Surely you grew faint from it!"
Anne could not argue, but her stomach did not agree with the notion of food. She eased upright, making a gesture to tug at her crumpled cloak so that Aramis would let go of her hand. "I...I think I can ride."
"There's no hurry," d'Artagnan volunteered, just as Aramis said, "Please take some sustenance first."
"Yes," Constance encouraged.
"I do not think I can."
"Then a little brandy," Constance said, digging around in her cloak pockets.
"You brought brandy?" d'Artagnan sounded startled.
"Doctor Lemay advised me it was desirable to have on hand for a great number of reasons," Constance replied.
Anne sighed, capitulating, and when the flask was brought forth she took a small swallow, and though the first burn against her lips was unpleasant, the warm path it trailed through her insides was less so. Aramis seemed to approve as the line in his forehead faded.
"There's some color now," d'Artagnan observed, as if she were newly foaled, but his objectivity was not unwelcome. Anne, emboldened, took another sip, and then Aramis reached for the flask and said, "Not too much," and she was certain that his lips formed the endearment "sweet" after, but perhaps she was completely imagining that part.
"I'm truly fine to continue. I only feel a little shaken."
But they sat a while longer, making excuses, finding things to do, and Aramis, though he had shifted sideways so he was not strictly holding her, stayed at her side until Anne finally stood and said that she had kept them waiting long enough. Perhaps this small exertion of will was enough to convince them, or they had all forgotten they were not supposed to consider her opinion to be command any longer, for everyone complied.
The rest of the afternoon's travel was unremarkable, except for the changing terrain as they made their way north, necessitating a more cautious ride. As the light was fading, Aramis had them stop in a valley, where a fallow field revealed waist-high grasses, adequate cover by the tree line and a nearby placid pond for water.
Anne was content to sit while Constance helped Aramis gather wood for a fire and d'Artagnan caught a rabbit for their dinner, which was sizzling over the low flames by the time it was dark. The clouds were clearing, revealing a spattering of new stars across the heavens. The air had turned cool, but the fire was bright and warm, lending an air of conviviality to their gathering that previously had been missing in the need to escape the city's environs. Gazing at the sky, Anne became aware that Aramis was crouching in front of her, with a portion of meat balanced on his knife.
She sat forward and gingerly attempted to pull some off, but it was too hot and she flinched. Aramis put one knee on the ground and separated a bite-sized portion for her, holding it close to her mouth. She couldn't interpret his expression...was it solicitous? Or challenging in some way? She parted her lips, grateful that he seemed to be the only one watching at least—Constance and d'Artagnan were on the other side of the fire, discussing something in low tones—and accepted the bite. She chewed self-consciously. He nodded his approval and had a piece himself, then offered her a second.
"I'm truly not...very hungry," she demurred.
"Take some anyway, to please me."
She wondered how it was he could say such a thing simply and seriously, how it did not sound ridiculous, though coming from any other man she might have scorned such a statement.
So they ate together in quiet companionship, watching the flames flicker in their circlet of stones. Anne was tired, but not drowsy; except for soreness building in her back, she felt no ill effects from the earlier tumble, and it was pleasure to sit with her cloak wrapped around her, the firelight driving away the darkness and chill from the trees. It was pleasure, too, to have Aramis near, so attentive; she didn't try to deny that to herself. She was accustomed to being waited on, but his attentiveness was different, it always had been. Not subservience, but respect, mingled with a touch of whimsy. She had never felt safe with Louis, whose moods could swerve from child-like affection in one moment to petulant rage in the next. Still, her status had always offered an extra layer of protection, although the years without conceiving an heir had, admittedly, made her feel less and less protected.
But Aramis treats me the same whether I have jewels in my hair or bugs, as I quite likely do in this moment...Anne tipped the hood of her cloak down and brushed fingers through her dishevelled hair as the thought occurred to her.
"I must look like a witch," she murmured, casting a glance at Aramis.
"More a ghost," he said, with a quirk of his mouth, and she laughed in surprise because there it was, an opportunity to say something gallant and he had chosen the gentle tease instead. I love you, she thought, and then the thought caught her so off guard that she froze, as if it had been voiced—that was not something she was allowed to think, that was all supposed to be sealed—untouched.
He saw her face change, she knew, and leaned forward. "What is it?"
She shook her head fractionally, seeing the others had stopped talking and had glanced at them before making an effort to discreetly ignore once again. "Nothing."
"Did I give offence? Tell me, I will make amends."
The part of her that she was always forced to sublimate (the part that was, after all, still a young woman) wanted to ask how, but she pressed her lips together. "I only...I get lost in my thoughts, sometimes." That was the truth. Even after learning to see Constance as a trusted friend, it did not come naturally to Anne to share what was on her mind, since she had kept it private so long in a French court where one could never be sure who was listening and where. And her reticence could only be an asset now that they would be attempting to attract no notice, insofar as possible.
"You can tell me whatever is on your mind," Aramis said. "I hope you know that. I hope you believe that."
"There are things I am not ready to say," she answered, softly, watching as d'Artagnan leaned forward to toss another stick on top of the coals from the fire's other side and stirred it to life again, the flames hungry around the dry wood.
"Perhaps someday you will be?"
"Perhaps." But she did not know if she would ever be free to say what she wanted to him. At this moment, someday seemed very far off. She pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders and stared into the fire.
After a night and a day of riding, Constance's legs demanded to be put to some purpose; she was normally far too active to endure sitting by the fireside a moment longer. Earlier she had helped to gather wood, but she hadn't taken more than a few steps circling the immediate area before they had found enough, and Aramis had entreated her not to go further afield as long as d'Artagnan was gone hunting and there was only one man to watch both women. "He would never let me hear the end of it if I let you out of sight," had been Aramis' exact words, and Constance had sighed, knowing he was right and resigning herself to staying put, but now that they had all had their supper and it was only now dark, she was determined to get some exercise.
Anne and Aramis were already sleeping, or giving every evidence of being so occupied. D'Artagnan had yawned once or twice, but she knew the moment she moved, he would notice, and he did, even though she'd thought she could slip away.
"Where are you going?"
"I still have the pistol," she whispered, bringing her finger to her lips.
"Pistol be damned, where—"
"I only wish to stretch my legs! We've been riding so long I can barely feel them."
He blinked at her for a few moments, glanced at the other couple and then capitulated. "All right." He stood up.
"I am sure," she said, "it is safe in this deserted countryside to go for a brief walk alone."
"I am coming with you."
She tipped her head and essayed a somewhat saucy curtsy. "Very well."
They walked through the trees, away from the dying fire. Constance took a breath of the cool air, already happier to be neither riding nor sitting. She pressed fists into the small of her back and stretched for a moment, wiggling her toes in their boots. When she took her hands away, he put his own hand on her back and began to rub in a gentle circle. For a moment she stiffened, looking at him, but his expression was bland, harmless.
"Should I not touch you?" he asked, after a brief pause, the warmth and pressure of his hand feeling actually quite marvellous against her sore muscles.
"You may," she said. But it was a bit overwhelming to stand there under the starlight, in the darkness, with the others far enough away for the first time that they felt alone.
Constance shifted away and began to walk again, casting a glance over her shoulder so that he did not feel deserted, and he caught up, giving her his slight, friendly smile.
"Thank you for providing dinner," she said, for something to say. She had packed plenty of dry provisions for the journey, but the fresh rabbit meat had been most welcome, especially considering that Aramis had managed to coax Anne into eating some.
"It was my pleasure," he said, mimicking (intentionally?) her formal comment. She glanced at him again, suspiciously, and he raised eyebrows. "Yes?"
"Nothing," Constance dismissed.
He opened his mouth, inhaled, then held the breath. "You seem—angry. No, that's not right. Nervous?"
"I am neither," she said, putting hands on hips.
"See that," he said.
"What?"
He gestured at her pose. "You do that when you're—whatever you are right now."
"Perhaps I am angry now," she said, forgetting to lower her voice, "because you are unduly interested in the way I stand!"
D'Artagnan looked confused. "If I'm not meant to be paying attention to you," he said, "perhaps you ought to say so."
Despite the cool air Constance could feel her cheeks heating alarmingly. "I have never said you were meant to pay attention to me."
He looked down and nodded, as if giving that consideration. He didn't say anything, just continued to look at the ground, and she found herself unnerved.
It did not seem right to stalk off again, and eventually Constance said, feeling both surly and somewhat diminished, "Have you nothing further to say?"
"I don't want to fight with you."
"Nor do I," she said, but she was not entirely sure that was the truth.
"Let's go back to the fire," he said, reaching for her hand. "It grows cold." He blew out a breath of air to prove his point.
"A little longer," Constance maintained, but she let him thread his fingers through hers.
