Fall—
The first few weeks of life at the abbey felt much like a continuous stream of self-imposed penance for Anne, not that she truly minded, at first. It seemed to her she deserved some type of—perhaps not punishment exactly, but certainly discipline, and the abbey provided exactly that. They had to rise early, work hard, eat little, and speak less. No one was unkind, but neither did anyone go out of their way to show them attention—which was ideal, and she had expected that too, but it did require getting used to, when she came from being waited on hand and foot.
It was clear that Constance, in the early days when they could snatch a few moments gardening together and share a few hushed words, had found her place almost right away. She was used to the work and the long hours, where Anne's hands had immediately developed blisters from the garden implements, or cracks from the immersion in wash-water. In Constance's presence Anne made efforts to hide or minimize any obvious discomforts, since she knew it would cause her friend needless concern. But at nights in bed she allowed herself the moments of self-pity that crept up, and if those moments produced tears, she allowed them to fall.
Within the first fortnight Boguain had sent a coded message back to Paris relaying their safe installation, and acknowledgement had returned. After that, life at the abbey resumed its predictable pace. In their scant free time, Anne and Constance were able to walk within the walls of the abbey, and converse (though their days were so simple and similar there was never a great deal to discuss, and they avoided talking about the past as a matter of security) but they took comfort in each other's company nevertheless.
One such afternoon, several fortnights into their stay, they were taking a turn about the gardens, their unscheduled period of time before the call to come in for prayer and evening meal. The weather was mild but cooler here in the mountains, necessitating the wearing of cloaks even during the day. Constance was picking the last of the marguerites, stringing them together in a chain as they walked.
"Do you miss home?" Anne asked, trailing her hand along the waist-high shrubs edging the pathway.
"I miss talking," Constance admitted with a small laugh, "and being able to go where I pleased, and of course the food was superior, but it is not so terrible here."
"Indeed," Anne murmured. "And what of d'Artagnan, do you miss him?" The question had come impulsively. She had not broached this topic yet.
Constance's movements slowed, and she let a marguerite fall from her hand without seeming to notice.
"I'm sorry if I shouldn't have asked," Anne said. "But you two were so close at the palace—and on our journey—I could hardly not notice."
"I hope I did not behave inappropriately," Constance said, her eyes downcast.
Anne laid a hand on her arm. "Of course not, Constance. Love—may I call it that? For so it seemed to me—love is never inappropriate."
"Well, it is certainly not always the most timely."
"That I agree with."
"You know I don't regret accompanying you here. It is no hardship for me. I only regret I can't take some of your work upon myself."
"I may not have been born to work," Anne said ruefully, turning her hand over now and inspecting its newest mark, "but I can learn."
"And you are doing a brave job." Constance spoke with earnestness. One of the nuns was approaching them on the path and they waited until after she had passed to continue. "Again, I wish it weren't necessary, but I am proud of you."
"I think the most difficult thing is not the work, or even the deprivation, but the uncertainty of not knowing how long this is to last." Anne looked around. "Though it is beautiful here. The air is so clean." She inhaled deeply.
"I have never quite gotten used to Paris air," Constance admitted. "I grew up the country. My father brought me to the city for the first time when I was to be married."
"Is it strange for you to be a widow? It is for me."
"Strange, and unfair, for both of us."
"How unfair?"
"That our fortunes and fates be so tied to the lives of the men we wed."
"It has always been so," Anne said, bemused by her bitter tone.
"But it shouldn't be."
"You sound as though you've been spending time with that girl Athos seemed interested in—the revolutionary?"
Constance must have looked shocked, but Anne laughed a little. "I wouldn't question his loyalty just because of the company he keeps, but certain professions are easier to hide than others. And she did speak out quite vehemently against our laws."
"I know my place," Constance said, and she sounded less bitter now, more resigned. "Or I hope I do. For my own sake."
The bell began to toll, signaling that the hour of vespers was upon them. They gathered their skirts and turned to hurry back towards the buildings. It was not until later that night when Anne was under her thin blanket in the dormitory that she realized Constance had never actually answered the question about d'Artagnan.
Spring
Looking over the cadets assembled in the yard that morning, it occurred to acting captain d'Artagnan that he was leaning on the railing in the same way Athos did and Tréville had before him. It was not an unpleasant realization.
Noticing an absence in the ranks, he called down, "Does anyone know where Brujon is?"
Some exchanged glances, but no one volunteered information, and Porthos, below, shook his head up at him. Training had to commence regardless.
But later, by the evening, when he had finally gotten the chance to sit and go through some papers that had been left for him in the office, there was a tap at the door. "Sir? Er, captain?"
He almost looked around for Athos before remembering, and cleared his throat. "Yes, Rouget. What is it?"
"I...I think I know where you can find Luc. At least, he was there last night. Le Canard Blanc, on rue de la—"
"I know where it is." They'd had to bring Athos back a time or two from that particular drinking establishment. "Are you saying he's still there?"
"I—I am not sure, but he may be. Yesterday he received bad news from his family."
"His sister is worse?"
"I believe she's...I believe she passed away."
D'Artagnan closed his eyes for a moment, then rubbed his forehead with the palm of his hand. "Thank you, Rouget. I will look into it."
The young cadet nodded and backed away, closing the door as he left.
D'Artagnan deliberated for another instant and then went below to saddle his horse. The tavern was not nearby, and it was already growing late.
Once at his destination, he dismounted, looping the reins of the animal over the rails lining the street, dodged a slop-bucket coming from an upper roof and ducked under the overhang, standing for a moment to catch his equilibrium. The tavern's open windows were glowing with lantern light, the stench of warm bodies and roasted pig and spilled wine commingling in the air and competing with laughter and shouts from within for the attention of his senses. He pulled off his gloves, tucking them into his belt, and checked his weapons. He was thinking, now, given the crowd here, that he might have been better off to bring Porthos for the extra set of eyes, though he hadn't wanted to leave the garrison unattended—but primarily he wanted Brujon's retrieval to be as quiet and unofficial in appearance as possible.
Indoors, he had to take some time moving through the boisterous crowd assembled, avoiding serving girls with trays and tankards, passing tables of men busy gaming with cards. Besides that, there were always two other types of drinkers: those spoiling for a fight, and those just wanting the wine to numb reality.
D'Artagnan was hoping Brujon fell only into the latter category.
He found him towards the back, at a small table for two at which he was the sole occupant, his head bent over a tankard in a far-too-familiar shape of misery. D'Artagnan paused for a moment, trying to determine the best approach, and a serving girl touched his shoulder. "'Ere to pay up for him, I hope?"
"I am. What's the reckoning?"
The girl did some quick mental calculation and named a sum. D'Artagnan stared at her. "He cannot have consumed that much. He's but a lad, look at him."
"He's been 'ere since last night," she retorted, tossing her head.
He counted out the requested number of coin, and said, "Bring more."
She examined the money in her palm, shrugged and flounced off.
There were no other chairs, so d'Artagnan snagged one from another table and brought it over, opposite Brujon. "May I sit?"
Luc looked up, eyes sour and swollen, whether from drink or tears it was hard to say, probably both. For a moment he said nothing, then recognition seemed to set in and he nodded, mumbling, "sir."
D'Artagnan rested his elbows on the table and steepled his fingers, thinking the boy was going to have a truly mighty mal au cheveux when he finally stopped imbibing (got un-drunk, as Porthos would have said), but, that was a problem for later. At the moment, he wanted to get him talking. At least that seemed like the simplest place to start.
"You don't have to come back to the garrison right away," he said. "But you should go home. Be a comfort to your mother."
Brujon nodded. And kept on nodding, as if compelled by some unseen force. "I was going," he said at last. "On Sunday. I was going home to see them on Sunday."
"I'm sorry."
Brujon's nod turned into a shake of negation, as he tipped around the bottom of his tankard looking for more liquid, but it was empty.
"I know well what it's like to lose someone close." D'Artagnan glanced around for the serving girl with their drinks.
"My sister was a child."
"I know. She was a sweet child."
There was silence between them for a space, while the noise of the others burgeoned in the background. The server reappeared with a jug and another tankard. D'Artagnan poured some for both of them, holding his aloft for a moment as a wordless toast.
"I'll go back with you, if you like. Once you're sober."
Luc traced a line in the tabletop with his finger. "I'm sober," he said, in an unconvincing way.
"When's the last time you had something to eat?"
"I don't know."
"Or sleep...You need to go home."
"Not tonight. I can't. I don't—I don't want anyone to see me like this."
"Well, it's too late for anyone not to see you," d'Artagnan said, looking around the crowded tavern—mixed in with the common crew he'd spotted a few red guards and several other musketeers, though everyone seemed to be minding their business for the time being—"but if what you mean is that you don't wish your mother to see you like this, and I agree she shouldn't, then you need to come back to the garrison with me. Yes?"
Luc nodded, taking a final swallow.
D'Artagnan stood up, leaned over and gripped his shoulder. He hadn't really expected it to be that easy, but the boy was clearly miserable.
And, as it turned out, could barely get to his feet. D'Artagnan had to put an arm round him and half-carry him along, not particularly a problem because Brujon was fairly slight (he recalled trying to help Aramis drag Porthos out once and they'd had a time of it even between the two of them.)
Outside, the cool air striking their faces, was a relief, except that when d'Artagnan released Brujon in order to bring the horse round, the boy staggered across to the edge of the wooden plank-way, fell to his knees and vomited copiously.
D'Artagnan grimaced, then approached him. "All right," he said. "It's all right. Thought you didn't eat anything."
"I didn't," Luc said, raising a wretched face.
D'Artagnan rubbed the back of his neck, and brought the horse over, the animal waiting patiently while he endeavoured to throw Brujon up on its back. The young cadet slumped in the saddle.
"Hang on, will you?" Having him fall and cracking his head open on the cobblestones was an event to be avoided. He slipped the reins forward and began to walk, leading the animal slowly down the lane-way. It would be a long jaunt back to the garrison, but there was nowhere else he needed to be at this moment—even though he might have wanted to.
Porthos met him at the gates of the garrison. They both examined Brujon who by now had fallen across the neck of the horse in a state of something resembling an inebriated coma. Then Porthos merely grunted, pulled him off the horse and tossed him over his shoulder.
"Thank you," d'Artagnan said. "I don't think I could have managed that."
"Not a problem," Porthos answered, hefting the cadet and starting for the stairs. D'Artagnan followed them up, and stood outside on the balcony looking out over the darkened yard until Porthos rejoined him, sans Luc.
"Put him down on his bunk," Porthos said. "Some of the others were still up but they didn't have anything to say about it."
"Good." D'Artagnan let out a breath. "This business of being the captain is more work than it seems."
Porthos let out a low laugh. "Truth, you would have gone out after him anyway. After any of the men. We all would, if we knew."
"Probably."
"So what does it feel like?"
"Being acting captain?" He glanced sideways at the older man, wondering for just an instant if Porthos had resented the assignment and then dismissing the notion as quickly as it came. Porthos, though he could look the most imposing, was the best-tempered and least begrudging of all of them. "I don't know. It's not something I ever thought to be."
"You would rather have gone on the retrieval mission."
He nodded.
"Naturally," Porthos encouraged.
He gripped the railing, thinking about how he'd left Constance. How the last time he'd seen her, it had felt like everything they had built together had come tumbling down as if sand near the tide.
He hadn't discussed it, with any of his brothers, in the weeks and months that had passed since their return from the abbey.
Furthermore, he wouldn't have thought Porthos would be the one he would go to first, if he went to any one of them, for any kind of counsel on the matter. But he and Aramis hadn't quite managed to get back on an even footing after the knowledge of what had passed between him and the queen, and Athos...well, Athos had his own woman problems.
"You don't have to talk about it," Porthos said, reading his face with what seemed like no effort at all.
"I love her," d'Artagnan said, at last, "but it wasn't enough."
"It often isn't," Porthos said. "Did you offer her anything concrete?"
He slapped his palm against the railing, feeling a satisfying sting in response. "I asked her to be my wife."
Porthos formed an "ah" sound with his mouth and stared straight ahead before casting a sideways glance at him. D'Artagnan gripped the rail hard enough to whiten his fingers.
"And that was not received as you hoped?" the other musketeer persisted.
"She said she could not." Constance's face formed in memory before him. "She said, 'I can't.'"
"Well, in fairness to the lady," Porthos said, "she might have needed more time to make such a decision. Now she's coming back. You could ask her again."
D'Artagnan shot him a look. "Does it seem that simple to you?"
Porthos shrugged. "Sometimes you have to keep things simple. It's been five months, hasn't it? So, way I see it, you can either forget her, or you can try again."
"I can't forget her."
Porthos gave him a gentle punch to the shoulder. "So, you know what you have to do, Captain."
He smiled a little, which had certainly been the other's intent by the epithet. "Sounds strange."
"Not that strange. You can get used to nearly anything."
"I might have to relay that wisdom to our actual captain when he gets back."
Porthos chuckled, and pushed away from the railing. "Good night."
"Porthos."
"Mm."
"Thank you."
Porthos touched his hat and disappeared inside.
Athos was beginning to realize that that he had missed these longer excursions. The past winter, of course, had naturally put a limit on extended expeditions, but more and more he was called to spend his time in a narrowing circle that did not extend far beyond the garrison, the palace and its immediate streets.
The carrying of responsibility and subsequent tension that often felt like a physical weight on his back while in town was somewhat relieved out here, in the vast countryside, where they might ride for an hour without seeing another person, or only a farmer's cart traversing the distant road.
When they stopped that first night for a few hours' rest—already more than halfway to the abbey on their well-conditioned horses—he was able to sit back against a tree, fill his lungs with the fresh country air, close his eyes and and simply absorb the quiet. Aramis didn't spoil the stillness by being chatty, although he was well able; he was naturally voluble, and would expound at length on his various philosophies if given the chance, but also respected Athos' natural desire for silence.
For the most part.
But he was quiet on this trip. Once the horses were tended to and they had shaken out their cloaks to sleep, he had his arms under his head and was looking up at the stars, obviously not ready for slumber though it was his turn, but not undertaking any conversation.
Athos watched him for a while. Over the past winter he hadn't had much in the way of conversations with any of his closest brothers. It had not precisely been a purposeful avoidance; each day was taken up with business and at night he had been doing his drinking alone. Since things had become difficult with Sylvie (whom he was avoiding, if he was honest with himself), he'd found himself less inclined to spend what little leisure time there was answering well-meaning questions he had no stomach for.
One of the horses nickered and side-stepped, and he looked up, sharply, weapons at hand—but the woods remained still, free of threat; he could only hear branches creaking in the wind.
"Worried about the garrison?" Aramis asked, sending the question into the darkness where it lingered.
"No. Are you?"
"It's not mine to worry about."
"True."
"I suppose you wouldn't have chosen to come if you were going to worry."
"I wouldn't have chosen d'Artagnan if I thought he couldn't manage, either."
"Still." Aramis tilted his head sideways, still supported by his hands. "Not the most obvious selection, was he?"
Athos breathed in and out through his nostrils, not irritated, but measuring. "Porthos doesn't care."
"No, I don't believe he does."
"So?"
"So I think d'Artagnan might be...distracted, that's all."
"I think we're all distracted."
"Some of us more so than others."
"I'm going to assume you're talking about yourself and not about me."
Aramis chuckled, his breath spiraling out into the cool air.
"Moreover, if I'm having doubts about any of my decisions, it'd be bringing you, not leaving him."
"What's that meant to mean?"
Athos picked up a twig and began carving a notch in it with his dagger, letting that question sit for a while too.
"Has he said anything to you?"
"What would you do if I said he had?"
"Nothing. Boy has troubles enough of his own."
"Precisely. Moreover, I believe you forget how long I've known you, and, more to the point—" Athos leveled the dagger at him—"everything we've gone through."
"And...?"
"And as much as we both understand that d'Artagnan is compromised because of the Bonacieux woman, it seems to me you're no better off."
"If you find me not doing my sworn duty," Aramis said quietly, "you let me know."
"If I find you," Athos said, "I will let you know. Get some sleep if you can. We're on our way in a few hours."
Aramis turned on his side and pulled his cloak over his head. A short time passed before he pulled it off and said, "Can I inquire as to the timing of this mission?"
"Why. It doesn't suit your schedule?"
"I do not have a schedule. I am merely curious. You mentioned that Tréville was vague."
"He was. He said he'd been considering it for some while now. It wasn't a hasty decision. Hardly could be, after the trouble we took to get them established there."
"Hm."
"Hm?"
"I have a feeling about it. Just a feeling."
"Your feelings," Athos sighed, "fortunately don't dictate the details of our job."
"It's not a bad feeling. Necessarily."
"Good or bad," Athos said, "We're on our way."
