~Constance~
His fever continued to rise. It was not yet dangerous, but it was frightening nonetheless. There were no wounds to heal, no infection to attend. The man she loved had simply fallen ill and it left her feeling more helpless than she had ever felt before. Hacking coughs and chills plagued the young musketeer and though she was thankful that no blood had past his lips, a small part feared d'Artagnan had contracted a deathly illness.
She had seen others pass in the space of an evening from something so seemingly innocent as a simply head cold.
Although her skills in the medical arts were by no means on par with those of Aramis, she knew enough to be able to care for d'Artagnan in Aramis' absence.
Captain Tréville and the other three had left some two days previous, taken away from the city to investigate a series of attacks upon passing carriages on the roads leading into Paris. A troop of musketeers had also recently been severely injured on their way back from a half-year posting with the King's cousin in Nice.
Tréville and the three musketeers had left d'Artagnan behind in hopes that a few days rest would cure the cold that ailed him.
Constance had been given permission to stay in the garrison and tend to the sickly Gascon. With her husband travelling for business, she leapt at the opportunity to be near him. And so she had sat, by d'Artagnan's bedside, pretending in her mind, that she were his dutiful wife, mopping his brow, spooning him both, never leaving his side.
"Sing to me," d'Artagnan had asked of her weakly in the early hours one morning. His fever had risen steadily during the night, but was only now starting to cool.
"My singing won't make you feel better, I'm telling you now," Constance smiled softly as she placed a fresh wet cloth upon his forehead. "More likely it will cause your ears to bleed and then were would we be?"
"Where's Athos?"
"He'll be back soon," Constance comforted softly with practiced ease, it was the same question each time, though the names were interchangeable; Athos, Aramis, Porthos, his father, each had their part to play in d'Artagnan's fevered dreams.
"Sleep now," she told him, brushing away the wet hair clinging to d'Artagnan's brow.
She had hardly left the room in two days. Only leaving his side to retrieve fresh water and broth.
Stale air and the depressing site of the darkened gloomy room, had forced her to push the window open wide, even though she was unsure whether this would negative affect d'Artagnan's state. Her mother had once spoke upon the healing properties of sea air, so perhaps fresh air would be beneficial – not that any would call the city air fresh – but anything was better than suffocating in the dead air of the room.
The past couple days had gone past in a blur of worry and tentative care. It took her a few moments to even realise the sun had set upon the second day. Though d'Artagnan had slept through most of his illness, Constance had barely slept at all. With the others away and the garrison doctor tending to an array of wounded musketeers, Constance was the only one available to provide the Gascon with constant care.
"There has been no word from them," she could hear them muttering in the corridor, just outside d'Artagnan's door. The creaking of wooden floorboards and the differing vocal tones informed her there were two men who were currently pondering whether or not they should enter the room.
"It was a simple scouting mission, no reason for them to take this long." Another spoke, his voice slightly louder than the rest, sounding more authoritative. "D'Artagnan would want to be with those sent to retrieve them."
Worry and anxiety clawed at her heart as she flickered her gaze down at the fevered man in the bed beside her. The candle offered little light, though it was enough to see d'Artagnan's pale and gaunt features, the dampness upon his brow. He was in no condition for a rescue mission, no matter how much the others were in danger.
A soft knock rapped upon the door, hesitant but urgent.
"D'Artagnan?" an unfamiliar musketeer peaked his head through the door, looking nervous. Though his name escaped her, Constance felt she had seen the man's face before.
"He is resting," Constance informed them in a clipped tone, her expression making it clear that the man was not welcome.
"I must wake him, Madam," the musketeer sighed, his voice heavy with regret.
"Henri?" d'Artagnan's words were slow from sleep and fever.
"Captain Tréville and the others have not returned," Henri spoke softly, imploring d'Artagnan to read between the lines, "they are a day late."
"What?" D'Artagnan pushed away his covered weakly, attempting to get out of the bed. The sudden movement and surprise triggered a series of painful coughs and wheezes for the sickly Gascon, who tried to hide it best he could.
"What are you doing?" Constance rushed over to the bed to stop him from exerting himself.
"Where are they?" D'Artagnan welcomed Constance's touch, though did not allow her to push him back into the bed, simply to sit upon it with his feet upon the floor.
"We are sending a party in search for them, León and a few of his uninjured men, we wished to know if you are well enough to accompany them." Henri offered, "We thought you would wish to aid their search."
"I will be ready to leave at dawn," d'Artagnan nodded stiffly, trying to keep himself sturdy and strong, though Constance could see his strength waning.
"You are to stay in bed!" Constance interrupted with a authoritative tone, a concerned expression on her face, "I have not spend these last few days by your bedside simply to have you waste my efforts by traipsing about the woods looking for lost musketeers!"
"Tell Antoine to have my horse ready," d'Artagnan informed Henri, ignoring Constance's protests as if he hadn't even heard them. As if proving some prideful point to all who bared witness, d'Artagnan stood up to deliver this comment to Henri, even though his legs trembled and he looked as if he were able to fall.
"Of course," Henri nodded with a nod of acknowledgment, "I shall inform the others."
With this, Henri exited the room promptly, leaving the two occupants to deal with the aftermath of the news.
"D'Artagnan," Constance scolded him the moment the door was closed.
"I cannot abandon them!" d'Artagnan told her fiercely, struggling to hold himself upright, one hand pressing into his chest as his face wrinkled in pain.
"You are dead on your feet! There are other men going, surely they will find them." Constance sighed, guiding him back into bed with her persistent hands.
"They are my brothers, Constance, I need to bring them home." His voice was almost a whine, like that of a small child or injured animal. It was emotional and raw, causing a swell of fear to rise within her.
What was she to do?
D'Artagnan would run himself the grave if he went out in his condition. But nothing she could say would convince him otherwise. Ever the wilful Gascon, d'Artagnan had a weakness for ignoring his own hurts in the wake of justice and loyalty. He would never abandon the others even if it cost him his life.
Within moments, d'Artagnan's energy had subsided greatly and he had fallen back into a weary slumber. His wheezed breaths drew sharply as he struggled to breathe through his congested chest.
"Sleep," Constance soothed gently, though the panic inside rose with each minute that passed.
How long until the sun rose? How long until they came to call d'Artagnan out? How long until she was forced to watch him ride out to his death?
A sharp knock pulled her from her thoughts violently.
"What?" she snapped at the man at the door, before realising it was the doctor. "Forgive me, monsieur," Constance moaned an ashamed apology, running her hand across her forehead to brush away some hair that had fallen out of place, "the last few days have been taxing."
"A sleeping tonic, Madame," the doctor informed her, placing the glass vile in her hand. "A few drops in water should give him a few hours of peace and help him rest through the night."
"Thank you," Constance supplied politely, though her response was automatic, her thoughts never left the man in the bed beside her. She hardly even heard the door close behind her.
Popping the cork from the the vile, she administered a few drops, as instructed, into a cup of water and aiding a sleep-ridden d'Artagnan in drinking the tonic.
Why did he have to be such a stubborn idiot? She let out a growl of annoyance, jamming the cork back into the vile.
Nervously thumbing the bottle with absent fingers, she came across had a desperate thought.
D'Artagnan could not ride out if he were not awake… One drop extra would not be dangerous for the sickly man, but it would stop him from leaving…
But he would never forgive her if she did. If she allowed him to remain in bed while the others died in some far of field.
This would have been easier if her brothers were still with her, she could have easily sent Mathieu in d'Artagnan's place. Though, admittedly even she was better with a sword and pistol, it was better than the risk to d'Artagnan's health.
A sudden thought was triggered upon looking back at d'Artagnan's sleeping figure, of a story he had told her once when they had lay in bed together – before her husband had exposed their affair – he had whispered the fable softly as he trailed kisses down the length of her shoulder and arm. The tale of the fair soldier Catalina de Erauso, a Spanish maiden who had escaped to the Spanish continents in the far west. She had dressed as a man and enlisted into the Chilean to fight the wars there, side by side her brother, though even he did not recognise her in disguise. Catalina became such a famous warrior that the Pope himself granted her dispensation to wear men's clothes.
D'Artagnan had told her this tale to illustrate the strength of women - and, probably closer to the truth, to seduce her into another fumble beneath the sheets. Though he had spoken the account with such wonder and admiration, that it almost sparked a small jealous flame within her.
However at this moment, the idea seemed fitting.
With no other musketeers to spare and d'Artagnan's stubborn nature, the ill Gascon would ride out at dawn with the search party.
This was something Constance would not let happen.
"Doctor!" She called out, rushing through the ill lit corridor in search of the medic, finding him at the foot of the staircase, thankful for his old age as it meant he had not gone far.
"What can I do for you Madame?"
"I must return home in the morning and wondered if it possible for you to tend d'Artagnan in my absence." Constance asked courteously, "I may be able to return by the evening, but I would be most appreciative of your care."
"My dear, it is my duty to care for those in this garrison," the doctor returned curtly, though there was a hint of subtle charm and humour in his tone. "I thank you for your help whilst I was occupied, but it is not trouble of mine to continue the work I was commissioned."
"Thank you, monsieur," Constance breathed, relieved that the first stage in her plan had been successful.
Though this was the easiest stage, it allowed her to move forward and motivated her to see the rest of it through.
†††
The hours passed with a paradox of seemingly slow moment juxtaposed with the all too fast passage of time. A quick scout of the courtyard saw Constance in possession of a large leather hat, and though it proved too large for her head, it concealed her hair and shadowed her face.
"'Nonstance," d'Artagnan mumbled through fevered breaths, a hoarse cough erupting from his throat, his voice barely a whisper. "I ne'd t'go, deyneedme,"
"Hush now," she whispered softly, handing him the tainted water with a nervous flutter in her heart. "Drink this."
With soothing utterings and the effect of the tonic, Constance lulled him back to sleep, carding her fingers through his hair.
As the bells rang out across the still night, she knew it to be time. There was not a moment to waste upon the futility of her plan and a single glance at the man in the bed renewed her courage and determination to see it through.
A series of bandages around her chest secured her breasts in tight. It was not the first time she was thankful for a lightly smaller chest than other woman. Her mother often told her this would change when she had children of her own, but for now it suited her fine.
Being taller in the legs and body, d'Artagnan's pants looked rather terrible on her, it was clear these had not been made for her. They were far too long, tight at the hips and loose upon her waist. His shirt billowed around her like sails upon a tall ship, though thankfully his leather doublet fit her wonderfully, if a little too big for her.
An odd feeling came over her as she caught a glimpse at the pauldron upon her shoulder – the sigil of a musketeer. Another life perhaps, had she been born a man, become a soldier – not that she had even wanted to be a man, she loved being a woman and once she became a mother she would love it all the more. It just would've been nice to have that freedom for once, to do as she pleased, to be able to fight for what she believed in, for what she loved, just as a man would do.
Strapping d'Artagnan's sword and dagger across her waist, she felt the added guilt of her farce.
A quick glance at herself in the reflection of the glass window made her frown. It was not very convincing. Anyone that knew d'Artagnan would be able to tell immediately that she was not the young Gascon musketeer.
"D'Artagnan!" A heavy pounding came from the locked door, causing Constance to jump a little in surprise. "We must be on the road!"
"Be out in a moment," Constance lowered her voice in a dreadful attempt to mimic d'Artagnan's voice. Wincing at her awful imitation she bit her lip, allowing once last look at the man she loved before placing a soft kiss upon his fevered forehead. A happy moan from d'Artagnan at her touch gave her the courage to stand and place the large hat upon her head, tucking in the strands of loose hair underneath.
Consciously emulating the gait and slouch of the other men, Constance walked into the garrison courtyard, where a troop of four other musketeers on horseback stood ready to depart.
The sun had not yet risen, though the low light of dawn was eagerly upon them. Darkness was her friend in this scenario, providing deep shadows for her to slip through.
With her hat shadowing the entirety of her face, she gave a little smile of confidence; so far she had not been discovered.
"I see you've finally found yourself a hat," Serge chuckled affectionately as he walked past with a large pot of stew. Constance simply ducked her head in acknowledgement and moved quickly over to d'Artagnan's horse, which thankfully had already been saddled by the stable boys. Not that she couldn't have done it herself, but rather she would have no idea which was d'Artagnan's saddle or reins, which would have resulted in her giving that game away before it had even started.
She pulled herself up upon d'Artagnan's raven gelding, spurring the horse on to follow the others in front, sparing a moment to glance up at d'Artagnan's window. She hoped he would forgive her.
†††
There was something wickedly delightful in deception. The adrenalin bubbling under her skin, her heart beating furiously in her chest – she had never felt so alive!
As the scouting party of musketeers had been away when d'Artagnan had joined the garrison, they had never really been introduced to the Gascon boy. They were initially curious, but soon dropped their questioning as all they got in return were shrugs and mumbled grunts from the woman in disguise. Constance had opted to limit her conversation with the men, knowing that this was something that could easily give away her farce.
"We'll find them lad, we'll bring 'em home." one spoke softly as they rode, leaning over to pat her shoulder forcefully – almost enough to push her out of the saddle, though she recovered quickly.
A small flicker of confidence rose within her as she saw the beauty in her plan not to converse with the others – they simply saw her behaviour of that of a melancholy soldier, worried for his missing friends.
The wooden road around them held an eerie silence that was neither pleasant nor comforting. Birds did not sing and the wind fell dead. A chilling shiver ran down her spine as she looked around under the deep brim of her oversized hat. The unfamiliar musketeers accompanying her had fallen silent as well, which did nothing to assuage her growing fears – something was not right.
A small crack of a broken stick snapped her head in to the dense mass of trees. Her fingers gripping the reins of d'Artagnan's horse tightly.
"Ambush!" the leader of the musketeer troop roared back to his men as he swung his horse around.
A small flood of armed vagabonds streamed out of the trees like ants from their nest, coming at the musketeers from both sides of the road.
Sliding free of her saddle she ran for the trees, desperate for the protection and advantage of the woods. Her heart pumping wildly, she suddenly felt the fear cripple her in the chaos.
Balls flew from all directions as the sound gunpowder almost deafened her. The roar of the musketeers around her and that of the bandits came back in muffled waves.
But even with the fear in her heart and mind she knew that she could not run. D'Artagnan would not run from this fight and nor would she.
Lining a bandit in her gaze, she pulled d'Artagnan's pistol free and aimed it toward him.
Aim.
Fire.
The force of the ball through the pistol did not surprise her as it once had, for now it was familiar act.
"Damn," she cursed as the shot went wide, missing her target completely. Though the tree beside him looked a little worse for wear. Her mind desperately ran through d'Artagnan's teachings on how to load and fire the pistol. She felt desperately for d'Artagnan's powder flask, calming her nerves she still her shaking hands.
Powder.
Ball.
Wad.
Arms loose.
Breathe.
'Don't snatch at the trigger' d'Artagnan's calming voice danced over her reverie as she took another bandit in her sights.
Fire.
The ball flew true and struck the man's left shoulder, just above his heart, propelling him back and into a heap upon the ground.
"Good shot, lad!" One of the men cheered brightly, causing a warm feeling to burst upon her chest.
The bandit lay dead, disposed with a simple pull of her trigger. It was frightening and sickening to think she had ended a man's life, though at the same time, that man had held a pistol readying to fire upon one of her fellow scouting party – surely then that gave her the right.
The last time she had killed a man, d'Artagnan had been there to sooth her as he slid the pistol from her trembling hands, but he was not there now. Though still fighting for d'Artagnan, she knew this time she was alone in her fight.
With the bandits closing in, the time for pistols was behind her. Rapier drawn, Constance prepared herself for close combat.
Sword held out before her in the way d'Artagnan had dutifully taught her, she circled the vagabond, readying herself for the attack. Moving with a blade was by far easier without the added weight of her skirts and corset. Her arms felt more free and agile, d'Artagnan's rapier a deadly extension of her arm, slicing and parrying dangerously.
The bandit was impatiently and struck first – a careless mistake – allowing Constance to block and thwart his advances, disarming him in the exact fashion d'Artagnan had tutored her in.
His sword fell to the ground as another musketeer appeared behind him, delivering the bandit a deadly blow in his lower side.
"Well done, lad," the brunette musketeer beamed at her, swelling her chest with pride and confidence.
So this is what it truly felt like to be a musketeer? The winds whipping around her bare neck and face as she ran through the chaos. Defending the land for King and Country.
It was glorious!
With a triumph burst of excitement in her chest, Constance thrust the blade forward, embedding its tip deep within another bandit's side, felling him with a single blow.
Finding a moment to catch her breath, Constance looked around at the chaos around her. The invading bandits were not match for the expertise of the King Musketeers and they had made little work of the savage men.
A wave of relief washed over her as she stowed d'Artagnan's gun carefully in the belt around her waist and sheathed her sword. Though the other musketeers had not yet stowed their weapons, she believed it safe now that the bandits had been taken care of.
However, with all the excitement of the battle, Constance had failed to notice the sound of horses draw near.
"Arquette, please tell me you lot haven't taken all the fun!"
Oh no, Constance bit her lip and her heart froze as she heard the familiar voice as a trio of men on horseback stilled their pace coming closer to the scouting party. Her mind reeled desperately for an excuse to scurry away into the trees. The moment they saw her, they would know of her deception.
"Three days with nothing but dull countryside and you boys rob us of the only bit of action!" Aramis sighed with a dramatic flare.
"Downright rude, that is." Porthos agreed gruffly.
"So you lots are alive," Arquette laughed at the trio joining them. "Now I owe Henri three livre…"
Constance fought to remain at the back of the group, silently hauling herself up into the saddle of d'Artagnan's gelding, praying desperately to not be seen by the three musketeers. If she kept quiet and out of sight perhaps they would not notice the familiar pauldron upon her shoulder or her pistol on her hip, perhaps she could still keep up her deception.
"Captain's horse drew lame," Porthos sniffed as the three spurred their horses up beside the others. "He and the others rode to the next village over to acquire him another, we were sent back to keep you boys in order in his stead."
"Well, alls well then aye? And we brought your little Gascon along for the ride," Arquette chuckled, pointing over to Constance upon d'Artagnan's gelding, before adding, "Quiet lad ain't he? Though not half bad with a pistol and sword…"
"Indeed," Athos drawled out as he looked over towards Constance, watching her with a cold stare.
With a racing heart, Constance ducked down low in her saddle. Athos had spotted her – that much was sure. But had the others noticed? Perhaps Athos would keep quiet and simply let this pass.
"Well I for one am in need of a bottle and a bed," Arquette laughed, causing a chorus of nods, agreeing heartily.
As the others got up into their saddles and began to walk out, Constance became all too aware that Athos' gaze was heavily upon her, though it was not until too late that she realised he wasn't the only one.
"Do you know something, d'Artagnan?" Aramis said in a low voice as rode up beside Constance casually, matching d'Artagnan's horse for stride and step. "Put a woman in trousers, and miraculously she still looks like a woman…"
Suddenly Porthos' horse flanked her other side, trapping her between the two suspicious musketeers. "Yeah I've heard that too," the larger man nodded thoughtfully, "they say the same about hats."
"Do they now?" Aramis looked over at Porthos with an exaggerated expression of interest.
Constance groaned, ducking her head low so that the large hat she'd procured, hid a greater amount of her face. The game was over, her subterfuge revealed, she only hoped they had the decency to wait until they were no longer in the company of the other musketeers to berate her for her crimes.
"León," Athos called forth an unfamiliar musketeer with flowing blonde curls, causing the man to pull his horse around to meet Athos' – this blonde man had been the leader of the company she had stowed away with. "Take the others and ride to Paris, we shall be along soon."
"Can I inquire as to why?" León answered with a curious tone.
"It is a personal matter, one which I shall inform the Captain of later."
"Say no more," León nodded with deep respect, as his horse "I must say though, your young lad is quite skilled, is he not? I had heard of his talent, but to see it in action is another matter."
"Truly," Athos replied in a low drawl, his teeth clenched with a tight jaw as his gaze trailed back towards the woman in disguise. "D'Artagnan," he said loftily, though Constance could see the cold anger that hid beneath the surface. "A word if you please."
Constance and the trio of musketeers stilled their horses as the others rode off down the road.
There was a moment of tense silence as they waited for the others to get a fair distance away.
"Get off the horse," Athos' voice was cold, as he swung his leg over his saddle, sliding out onto the ground effortlessly. His tone revealed the deep anger that lay beneath. He was angry, no, not angry – furious.
"What the hell are you doing out here?" he growled as he tore the hat from her head, allowing her dark red curls to billow around her shoulders.
"D'Artagnan's sick," she answered in a guilt-ridden mutter as means of explaination.
"So you left him in seek of suicide?" Athos roared thunderously, throwing the hat to the ground as he began pacing frantically before the woman dressed in d'Artagnan's clothes.
Aramis and Porthos had dismounted quickly and stood nearby, concerned for the anger their friend displayed.
"He would've killed himself if he'd gone on this mission." Constance attempted to explain, though the intimidation of Athos' piercing stare was enough to waver her confidence.
"And what would he have done if you had been killed in his place?" Athos growled fiercely, pointing a sharp finger in her face. "For him to wake only to find your body slain under his name! What then?"
Constance shook slightly in fear of the man before her. For many years she had known the musketeer, but never had she felt the force of his anger upon her.
"You not only foolishly risked your own life but you also risked the lives of the men beside you, they believed a competent soldier had their backs, not some silly woman playing musketeer!" He roared down at the frightened woman.
"Athos!" Aramis stepped forward, placing a sturdy hand against the furious musketeer's chest, physically placing himself between Constance and Athos. "Calm yourself, she only thought of protecting the boy."
With a slight shove, Aramis pushed Athos back, starring the other man down in ways of silent warning.
Athos let out a growl as began to pace at a distance, in hopes to assuage his anger.
"Are you alright Madame?" Aramis turned back to the woman, gently approaching her in words and actions.
"I'm fine," she uttered under her breath, which was barely heard. In truth she was furious and tired and embarrassed and sore. The adrenaline from the battle was leaving her body, with nothing but the stress and strain of the past few days remaining.
"Blood," Aramis noted, delicately reaching out at the bloodied tear upon Constance's stolen shirt.
"It's not mine," she reassured him.
"Then I daresay you owe our lovely Gascon a new shirt…" he teased, hoping to make her smile, though Constance did not feel it in herself at that moment.
She hated feeling like this after everything she had done. For the briefest of moments during the battle she had felt powerful, like some great heroine of legend, like them mighty Joan of Arc slaying the English in the name of God and France, just like the Catalina de Erauso from d'Artagnan's story.
How was it that she now felt like she was a silly little girl again, nervous under the dismissive and dispassionate gaze of her father?
It made her furious to think they could tear that glory away so suddenly and treat her like some insolent child.
"You are very lucky those musketeers are unfamiliar with d'Artagnan, Madame," Aramis noted softly, though his words simply caused more fury to bubble under Constance's skin, "impersonating a soldier is a grave offense, particularly by a woman."
"With a bad-tempered judge, they could see you in the Châtelet for this, maybe even executed…" Porthos told her gravely, his brows knitted in worry and concern.
"I was protecting d'Artagnan, the same as any of you would!" Constance cried back, in defence of her actions, her anger rising dangerously as well as her pride. "Why should I not have the right to fight, purely because I am a woman?"
"Do you any idea what it would have done to d'Artagnan had you been killed?" Athos chose that moment to return to the conversation, though his temper did not seem improved.
"Athos," Aramis sighed heavily, however the elder musketeer ignored him.
"A mere word from you can lighten his spirit or crush his soul," Athos growled, finger pointing at Constance accusingly. "What do you think would happen if you were killed for his sake?"
"And you do not think his affect upon me the very same?" Constance kept her gaze strong and unblinking as she looked at the furious musketeer, she would not be threatened by his anger. She had done what she felt right, damn the laws at hand. "You think my love any less simply because it is a woman's love?"
This caused Athos' jaw to clench, as if he were holding back words. Seeing an opportunity, Constance continued, her fiery gaze locked up the furious musketeer.
"I have forfeited my reputation for the love I give d'Artagnan and I have scarified my freedom and happiness in hopes that I could save him from those who would do him harm. So do not think for a moment that I would think twice about sacrificing my life for his. I would gladly die if that meant he could live. I know you think me some naïve young housewife with no knowledge of the world and you may be right, but I know love, and I know when it's worth fighting for it." Tears of anger and frustration had begun to well in her eyes, though she ignored the fact.
"And I know I have hurt him with my marriage, but I cannot change my past actions. I wish to God that I had know d'Artagnan first… but Jacques will never let me go and I will not put d'Artagnan through the heartache of another ill-fated affair but…
"I love him." She confessed softly, having lost the momentum of her roaring anger.
The three men before her stood in silence for sometime, listening only to the leaves rustle in the trees, the horses shift impatiently and the heavy breathes of the calming heroine before them.
"Forgive me for my outburst Madame," Athos sighed wearily, taking off his hat to thread in fingers through dishevelled locks. "What I said was unchivalrous and of bad form. Though you must understand the risks you took this day without thought of consequence."
"I'm not sorry that I did it," Constance snapped, though her tone calmed as she added, "but I'm sorry for the risks against the musketeers with me…"
"Are you hurt?" Athos asked earnestly, his brow creasing with concern as his eyes trailed over her muddied and dishevelled appearance.
"No, I'm fine," she replied, sounding a little guilty.
"I am sorry for my temper." He apologised once more, making Constance conscious of his regretful tone and stance.
"S'alright," Constance uttered meekly, grateful for the apology, though still unsure whether she completely forgave him. Her anger had subsided rather substantially after her outburst and at present was feeling rather self-conscious about the entire event. "In hindsight it probably wasn't the greatest of ideas, it's not even a very good disguise." She smiled timidly, wrinkling her nose as she gestured to her stolen clothes.
"No, it really isn't…" Porthos chuckled honestly, shaking his head.
"Spotted you from a mile back," Aramis smiled cattishly, thumbs tucked into his belt with a slight air of polished arrogance.
"Though that doesn't say much about León and his men…" Porthos added, dipping his head slightly towards Aramis.
"Best not say anything," Aramis replied in a dramatic whisper, winking at Constance as he did so, relishing the small smile she graced him with this time. "Wouldn't want to dishonour their pristine reputations…"
"Promise me you shall never again willingly place yourself in these circumstances." Athos cut through their jests with a serious tone.
"I cannot," Constance informed him, though she did not wish to start another argument with the man, she held her ground. "I will never stand aside if I feel I can protect him."
Athos sighed as if acknowledging the fact that this was not an argument he would win.
"Then please, at least think before you do something this idiotic again," Athos told her with a touch of exasperation, "and if possible seek out one of us first."
"I could probably manage that," Constance smiled timidly, fiddling with the bloodied hem of d'Artagnan's shirt.
"Good, now put that hat back on," Athos told her, picking the large hat off the ground and dusting it a little before placing it in her hands. "It may be the worst disguise in the history of man, but it's the only one you have, so it'll have to do."
Out of instinct, Athos stood beside d'Artagnan's horse to aid Constance up upon it, though the moment she noticed this act of chivalry she brushed him off.
"I've got this." Constance quipped hotly, grabbing hold of the gelding's reins pulling herself effortlessly upon the horse's back, as if to spite Athos.
Athos hid his smirk from the woman and he returned to his own mount.
"D'Artagnan is a lucky man to have gained the esteem of such as woman," Aramis chuckled.
"He'd be luckier if she weren't married…" Porthos snorted, earning a sharp elbow to the ribs and a glare from Aramis. "What?" the larger musketeer asked, rubbing his bruising side, "it's true." He added under his breath.
"Come," Athos told them with a tired sigh, clearly the last few days had begun to tax his strength. "Paris is still a few hours ride yet," he informed them as he mounted his horse.
"And d'Artagnan will be in need of his clothes…" he added with a sharp look to Constance.
†††
The ride back to the city was slow and quiet. The musketeers' horses had been ridden hard for the majority of the day and needed the rest.
Porthos and Aramis rode out front with Constance and Athos some twenty yards back. The leading duo seemed to be involved in some enthusiastic conversation that involved a number of large gestures with their hands, and at one point involving an impromptu stale bread and cheese fight.
Constance had wanted to laugh at the childish display but when she noticed Athos' blank expression she decided against it and remained silent.
Still feeling nervous around the stoic musketeer, Constance found she couldn't think of a single thing to say. Though Athos did not seem angry anymore and he had apologised for his fury, she still felt an awkward tension between the two of them, as if she were balancing upon a precipice and one word from her would send the man back into his furious rage.
"He taught you well," Athos murmured, breaking the tension of the silence as their horses walked on with an easy pace, catching Constance in surprise at the calm tone.
"Who?" Constance tried to keep her expression blank, but a single look from Athos reveal her attempt had failed.
"D'Artagnan has a particular style," Athos revealed with a subtle smirk, "You emulate it perfectly."
"You're not mad at him?" Constance realised, watching Athos' amused expression with curiosity.
"No," Athos sighed heavily, sounding rather like a father musing upon the transgressions of his wayward son. Constance could tell he was a little frustrated with d'Artagnan, but angry was not what the man seemed. "A little annoyed, frankly, though I trust he did was he felt was right."
Constance considered his reasoning thoughtfully. It was surprising given the furious anger she had been exposed to as a result of her choices. However looking back she knew Athos to be in the right with his temper – not that she'd let him know that, of course. The Musketeers were an elite band of brothers relying heavily upon the trust that the man beside you was prepared to die for you and you for him. It was irresponsible of her to put that trust in jeopardy for d'Artagnan's sake. But nevertheless, if given the choice again she would repeat her actions without remorse, for that was love. It was selfish and reckless.
And anyway, she had rather impressed those other musketeers in the field today. A small part of her had wanted to pull off her hat and show them that a draper's wife had fought so expertly – but she knew this must be a secret that must stay between the four of them.
"I am curious as to why he felt he could not protect you himself…" Athos interrupted her thoughts abruptly.
Ah, Constance realised, there it was. Astute as ever, Athos had cut to the core of the matter. The musketeer had not cared that d'Artagnan had taught her how to wield a blade and fire a pistol; no Athos cared for the why.
"Marsac," She offered truthfully, gripping her reins tightly in her hands at the mere mention of the horrid man's name. For so many nights after that day, she had lay awake, wondering – worrying – what would have happened, had things gone differently.
"He –?" Athos' eyes grew wide, his lips pursed as her words dawned upon him. Constance had always known Athos to be quick and clever, especially when it came to reading between the lines of subtext in which people spoke.
"No, no, d'Artagnan stopped him."
"But he would have…"
"Yes."
Constance's admission was left to hang in the air as their horses walked along audibly upon the rocky track. Athos' jaw hand clenched once more, a dark look appearing behind his eyes, which made Constance think that Marsac was lucky to be long in his grave.
"Your parry could use a little work," Athos finally broke the silence with a curt response.
"Perhaps some tutoring in muskets also," Aramis noted casually beside her.
Lots in her thoughts before, Constance had not noticed that the other two musketeers had slowed their pace to allow her and Athos to catch up. She wondered for a moment whether Aramis had heard her confession about Marsac, though she could not read his expression.
"And hand to hand combat," Porthos added thoughtfully, "you never know when it might come in handy."
Constance blushed in thanks, relishing the feeling of having three older brothers once more.
"Oh and Constance?" Athos look over at her nonchalantly.
"Mm?" She hummed in response, eyes drawn up to the older man curiously.
"You should not wear d'Artagnan's pants, they are ill fitting on your figure…" Athos added bluntly.
"What – Oi!" Constance snapped at his as she realised what he was saying. She took off her hat, knowing they were the only ones on the road, and lent over to slap the man's shoulder with its hard leather brim, causing him to laugh unabashedly.
It would only strike her later, that this was the first time she had seen Athos laugh like this. For the moment, however, she continued to beat the chuckling man with her stolen feather hat, chasing him back down the road to Paris.
†††
The garrison doctor was just leaving d'Artagnan's room when the four strode in, dirt ridden and weary from the long ride.
"How is he?" Athos was the first to approach the doctor, though his tone was mild, all who knew him could hear the worry apparent.
"Resting," the elderly doctor informed them with a curt tone, "his fever is down but the congestion in his chest needs rest."
Constance almost ran in to the room, to his beside. When she had left this morning, a small part of her feared that it would be that last time she would see him, that he would pass in her absence or that she would be killed on the road.
She knelt beside the bed; placing gentle kisses upon his cheeks and forehead, to wake him, which proved effective.
"Mm, don't kiss me, you'll get sick," d'Artagnan chuckled hoarsely, his voice dry and cracked from illness, weak hands clasping her own.
"If I do, will you promise to sit by my bedside?" She teased, placing another kiss upon his head.
"No," d'Artagnan replied simply, eyes still closed as he smiled, "I'll get in the bed though."
Porthos cleared his throat loudly, making the trio's presence known.
"Well looks who's finally awake," Aramis smirked.
"Hey," d'Artagnan yawned widely, causing an eruption painful coughs to overwhelm him. Constance placed her hand upon his back to soothe him and he soon quieted, looking far more tired than moments before.
"You were lost…?" the tired Gascon frowned deeply with great confusion, his eyes drooping low as his mind turn over visibly.
"Go back to sleep, we will be here when you wake," Athos told the sickly Gascon softly.
"Are you wearing my pants…?" d'Artagnan said slowly with a confused frown, his fevered gaze looking up at Constance.
"No, of course not, don't be stupid, that's your fever talking, go back to sleep." Constance said sharply, ignoring the soft chuckles from the musketeers behind her.
"M'kay…" he agreed placidly, allowing Constance to settle him back into the bed.
"You should return home," Athos uttered softly from across the small room, propped up against the far wall, arms crossed. "Your husband is set return soon."
"Oh, right." Constance nodded, bundling her dress and undergarments as she stood, "give me a moment and I shall return with his clothes."
"The next room over is unoccupied," Athos informed her, "we will watch over d'Artagnan," he added quietly as Constance left the room.
The room was also an exact copy of d'Artagnan's, with little more than a bed and small cupboard. Though somehow d'Artagnan's room had seem more welcoming and warm than the empty room she had walk into, though that could simply be down to the man himself, rather than the room.
Shedding d'Artagnan's bloodied and dirt cover clothes she folded them with gentle care, though they were in desperate need of a wash they were still his. It took less than moment to redress herself in her usual wear, years of practice aided her speed. And though she longed for a bath to wash away the blood and dirt beneath her nails, she knew that it was something that could wait until she arrived home.
Taking d'Artagnan's effects she exited the empty room and returned to the neighbouring chamber. Pausing at the door, Constance took a moment to appreciate the display of affection occurring within. Without a word between them, each musketeer had taken his place at d'Artagnan's bedside; Athos at the foot of the bed, his eyes never straying from the Gascon, Aramis took a chair beside d'Artagnan, expert hands checking heartbeats and temperature, while Porthos towered over them, leaning back against the wall beside the bed, arms crossed with a pensive expression, with a cup of water ready. Soft whispered conversations were not audible from where she stood, but they held a great deal of care and compassion.
It was rare to find a quiet moment between the four brothers; the life of a musketeer was ever riddled with hardships and travesties, there was such beautiful in coming across scene of peace.
"Madame," Athos retrieved her from the comfort of her thoughts, making it very apparent to the woman that he had caught her watching them.
"Hmm?" She blinked dumbly for a moment.
"He will still be here tomorrow if you wish to come by," Athos told her.
"Oh right, yes," she shook her head, flustered and embarrassed by her actions. "Tomorrow."
Each returned a cordial nod, though their attentions were occupied with d'Artagnan. Feeling as though she were intruding upon a private moment, Constance turned and left the room, knowing she was not needed now that d'Artagnan was surrounded by his brothers.
Alone with her thoughts, Constance headed towards courtyard. She was thankful that the sun had not yet set upon the cool autumn day.
"Constance," Athos' voice called out her as she walked through the darkening courtyard.
"I may not have agreed with your actions today," Athos told her, his eyes ablaze with earnest, " but do not mistake that for ungratefulness. You have my thanks." With this, the musketeer took her hand and placed a gentle kiss upon its back.
"You are truly wonderful with a blade and were things different, I would personally sponsor your training."
"Thank you," she blushed deeply at the complement, feeling as it his words would stay with her always.
"Goodnight, Madame," Athos dipped his head softly.
"Monsieur," she smiled back.
As she left the garrison, she could sworn she heard Porthos' laugh and say 'aww look who's gone all soft!'
Though she knew if she asked one of them later about it, they'd both deny it.
Thank you for reading! I was amazed at the positive response of the first chapter! I hope you like this one too :) Next Chapter is Aramis and then Tréville
Thanks! Chatnoir xx
