Summary: Porthos answers a summons from the queen
War Heroes
3.
A Mess of Treason
"The queen sent fer me." Porthos held up the closed, beribboned note, broken seal facing up so there was no question as to why he was here. Athos had warned them not to put a foot wrong, particularly at the Louvre where they knew for certain Feron had spies everywhere. "Suppose you tell her 'm here."
The seneschal on duty sniffed disdainfully, but beckoned a lower servant. "The queen is in the east garden. Take this ... Musketeer to her."
"Dunno what your problem is mate, I bathed this morning." Porthos made a show of sniffing his armpits. "Well, mabbe I did, don't rightly remember." He grinned, showing his teeth, pivoted on the balls of his feet and trooped after the servant trotting back down the expanse of hallway toward the main staircase.
"Mongrels, all of them."
Porthos did not turn back as he might have four years ago, with an offer to stuff the man's teeth down his throat. For a moment he was sorry Aramis wasn't with him, between them they could have turned the popinjay inside out and upside down without touching him, but then he remembered he was mad at the marksman.
Tempting as it was to hike a leg and let one rip, Porthos contented himself with a grin at the thought and caught up to, then passed the servant. He'd been hanging about the Louvre since his days growing up in the Court of Miracles, he doubted even in the four years they'd been away, the east garden had moved to the west entrance.
He saw her first, seated alone on a bench in the shade, watching her son - barely visible across the vast lawns and gardens, the king leading him about on a child-sized pony. He wasted another moment feeling sorry for her, before remembering she was not at the top of his people-who-make-me-happy list either.
"Your majesty," he greeted, removing his hat as he bowed with all the protocol Captain Athos could ask for. "You sent for me?"
She did not startle at his words, though he sensed she had not heard him coming. She had been deep in thought even though her eyes had been trailing her son.
"Porthos." Sadness lurked in the shadows guarding her eyes, but the smile she turned on him was brilliant. "It is so good to see you. I have prayed non-stop for your safe return. Would that this interminable war would find an ending!" Anne raised her hand, allowing the Musketeer the privilege of helping her rise.
"Amen ta'that, your majesty." And abandoning protocol, "I got things to do, what do you want wif me?" When he wanted, Porthos could speak with an eloquence equal to the Comte de le Fère; he was not inclined to do so now. He also knew it was safe to abandon protocol because she was much too nice to be spitefully mean, which made him feel a little guilty for a moment. The king wasn't too nice to be spitefully mean and Constance had told them the queen was slowly but surely being separated from her son.
He tried - and failed quite abysmally - to feel sorry for her.
"I have some questions."
Of course she did. She wasn't the only one.
Porthos was quite fond of his head and they'd barely skirted a trip to the chopping block attempting to cover up Aramis' amorous treason with this woman. She had a prick for a husband, no doubt about it, but queens remained chaste until they produced the heir and hopefully a spare. They did not invite infatuated Musketeers into their beds, and especially not under the roof of an abbey full of devout Christian women trying to save one's life.
"About the war efforts," she continued.
As if he was hangin' on her every word. Porthos refrained from rolling his eyes, but only just barely.
Wasn't Aramis always preachin' that their reward was laid up in heaven? Surely a devout Catholic queen should believe the same. Instead his monarch had seduced his best friend, his best friend had knocked up the barren queen and a situation had resulted whereby all parties had barely escaped with their lives. Though only because they'd managed to spin the truth as a lie from the mind of man gone mad during his long captivity in Spain.
"I'll answer what I can, your majesty."
Porthos had no love for the Comte de Rochefort, hopefully still roasting in hell these four years later for all the trouble he'd caused them. He had been an immorally evil man, but he'd been a truthful immorally evil man in the end. Though Porthos could drum up no sorrow for him either.
"And your companions."
"You do know Aramis spent the last four years in an abbey, right?"
With an aplomb far beyond her tender years, Anne slipped her small hand through Porthos' elbow and turned them away from the palace. "Of course I do. But let's walk, shall we?"
One did not refuse one's queen, even politely. Porthos matched his big booted footsteps to her far less lengthy stride, still holding his hat to his waist.
"I am watched constantly, I believe there are spies in every tree and bush on the grounds, but mostly especially there are those that spy on me from the palace. I suspect more than one of them has been trained to read lips ... so you will know why I have turned us away from the palace."
"You want us to take you away again?"
"That would be lovely, but impractical. I cannot leave my son. No, I asked for you because I want a promise from you."
So much for small talk about the war effort. Or his companions. Which might be a relief "What kinda promise?" Porthos did not care that she was his monarch. It was his job to watch over and protect her, he was not required to keep her secrets or make her any kind of promise.
"I want to know that if something happens to me, the Musketeers will guard my son with their lives. You will take him from whomever has him, by force if necessary, and see that he is kept safely out of harm's way until such time as his life is no longer in danger, however long that may be. I do not care if you must take him to the Americas, I want to know he will be safe. You and your comrades are the only ones to whom I can entrust this commission and know that it will be carried out against all odds."
With far more strength than Porthos would have imagined her capable of, she drew him onwards when he would have stopped walking.
"No, do not stop and stare at me as if I were some species of Dodo bird. I cannot lay this burden on Tréville, the king needs him too much. And the minister is loyal to a fault. Divided loyalties could result in a hesitation at a crucial moment and all would be lost." Her voice dropped, losing all trace of imperial regality as it devolved to that of a mother in anguish. "I can bear anything, anything at all, if I know my son is safe. You must promise me, Porthos, that the Inseparables will make the welfare of my son their first priority should Paris become a battle ground."
Not once as she made this impassioned plea, did her erect posture change, nor her eyes drift from the distant swathe of green she probably thought was hidin' a spy. Porthos was well aware she did not mean - should the Spanish somehow manage to drive the front line back to Paris - either.
"I'm mad at Aramis ya know."
She reacted to this non-sequitur with a small smile. "I had heard. You love him too much and are too kind-hearted to make him suffer for long, though." Anne glanced up briefly, studying his face for a long moment before patting his arm beneath her hand. "You have every reason to be mad at both of us, I'm afraid. And yet, you've risked your life for mine more than once." There was a short hesitation and her voice came again barely above a whisper, "I'm sure it's been many more times for Aramis."
"And nearly died a few more times without 'm at m'back too."
"Because of me," she supplied. "I am sorry for that, but ... blessed Mother forgive me ... I was grateful every day, to know that he was safely tucked away from harm."
Porthos scuffed a booted toe in the grass, ducking his head in that peculiar little side line gesture he made when confessing something embarrassing. Which didn't happen often, as very little embarrassed the big Musketeer. "Truth to tell, there was many'a night I was glad for Aramis' safety as well; tendin' Athos or d'Artagnan, thinking they weren't gonna make it through the night. Much as I hated lettin' him go, it was comfortin' sometimes, to know at least one of us was gonna make it through to the other side."
"Yes! That's it exactly!" Roses bloomed in her cheeks as she turned her face up again. "Don't you see? No matter what happens, if only I know my son will be safe, nothing else matters! Oh please, Porthos, promise me you will take him to Aramis and put them both on a ship bound for somewhere safe. I do not care if he grows up as a king or a commoner, royalty or a pig farmer, I care only that he has a life to live!"
Porthos sighed - literally gusted a sigh - but he clapped his hat on his head and put his large hand over hers where it rested on his sleeve. He had to hand it to the king; despite the man's suspicions, he clearly loved the tyke unconditionally. His revenge, though, had a diabolical symmetry worthy of Rochefort. While damsels in distress were more Aramis' territory than his, he could not deny a mother's heart. It reminded him too much of his own mother, abandoned by a husband whose priorities had lain elsewhere than with the family he'd created.
"I understand if you need time to think about it. I know you are loyal to France and I am asking you to commit treason, again, on my behalf. I do not require an answer now, nor will I hold it against you if you say no."
Porthos grunted. Damn all womankind; how could he say no? "I ain't makin' no promises I can't keep, but I will promise you this; I will make every effort to see that it happens as you've envisioned, should things come to pass here that make it necessary." The Musketeer glanced down at his royal companion. "You might want to put a word in Constance's ear; get d'Artagnan on your side and there'll be no question it happens the way you want."
She had her promise. She would not belabor the point. "Speaking of d'Artagnan ... whatever happened to the brash young man who stole Constance right out from under the nose of that man milner she was married too?"
"He grew up real fast like, n'channeled all that audacity into becomin' a war hero. Wasn't a line a'men d'Artagnan wasn't at the front of, no detail he wasn't willin' to head up, no job Athos ever gave him he said no to. Don't got enough fingers and toes together to count the number of times him and Athos saved m'worthless life. We're real proud a'that boy, your majesty, 'cept he ain't a boy no more, he's a man and one we're all proud to call our brother."
"Constance lit up whatever room we happened to be in any time we got news from the front and she heard her husband was alive and wrecking havoc on the Spanish lines."
"He did that a lot," Porthos growled, his excellent memory reminding him of every time they'd turned around and found their youthful compatriot vanished as if into thin air, only to see him at the head of some wedge flying at the enemy. It didn't matter if he had a horse under him or not, if there was a charge, d'Artagnan was in it. If he wasn't leading one, he was yammering at Athos to get the next one going. It was nothing short of miraculous that they'd brought him home alive and in one piece.
"He was not the only one," the queen said softly. "The dispatches were full of the three of you, up and down the lines, encouraging the men, leading the most dangerous assignments, always in the thick of battle where the most causalities were reported. It's a wonder any of you came home. We heard the Inseparables became the army's talisman. I hope it does not crumble and fall apart with your reassignment."
"Leaders always step up when there's a void, your majesty."
"Would that were so here in Paris. Though perhaps things will change now that you are back. Minister Tréville was only one man against the tide of inhumanity pouring into Paris to feed on the dregs of war. Perhaps our war heroes will strengthen his heart for the battle ahead. It galled him to have to play at politics while he was sending men to die on the battlefield. Our minister is a soldier through and through."
Porthos inclined his head at this truth. The last four years had marked Tréville too.
Hell, the last four years had marked every citizen of France. Deprivation and disease ravaged the country from north to south, east to west. Their northern border was nothing but a series of smoking ruins where once had stood prosperous villages and towns. What the Spanish had not laid waste to, the French had burned to the ground to foil the scavenging Spanish army.
"And Athos? How is he?" the queen inquired with honest concern.
"He's coping, just like the rest of us. He won't like this promise you've wrung from me, but he'll keep it because you've asked it of us. An ... he ain't mad at Aramis."
"He's loves him differently is all, Porthos. No less - just differently."
Porthos was struck by the insight. "I 'spose you're right. Athos was never one to show his affection openly, though war's changed him too. But you're right; not less, just different."
Her smile was beneficent. It's warmth gave Porthos the will to find a measure of forgiveness in his heart. Love was not a house plant to be trained up a trellis. It came in so many different shapes and sizes it was sometimes difficult for an old war hero past his prime to recognize it in all its varieties.
"Thank you for coming to see me. If you would have the time every now and again, to come and make friends with my son, it would make it easier ... should it become expedient to keep your promise. And I would appreciate it."
"It wouldn't be ... remarked?" Porthos could do subtle too.
"It might." She was silent for a moment before adding, "I have nothing else to live for, Porthos. He is my ... life."
Treason came in many different sizes and shapes as well. It was not as if the Inseparables had any qualms about treason, merely how they perpetrated it. Porthos bowed his head. May as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb - though more likely they'd be drawn and quartered if caught. "If you don't mind the cadets rotating through, we can ask the minister to assign Musketeers as body guards for the boy."
"An excellent idea," Anne crowed softly, beaming. "Oh, Porthos, you cannot know the relief you have given me." She hugged his arm quickly before straightening her spine again, regality settling upon her slender form like the folds of cloak falling into a long-familiar pattern.
Athos was going to run him through for agreeing to this, though their captain looked to be flirting with his own armful of treason. Could be a mess of treason the garrison might be cookin' up soon, he thought ruefully, though try as he might, he could not seem to dredge up even a respectful nod of regret.
