Apologies again for the gap in posting. This story is taking me way longer to pull together than expected. Still I'm learning a lot about how quickly...or rather not...I can write. Thank you for those still reading and bearing with me.
Thanks to all who reviewed, read, favourited or followed so far. I am truly grateful.
And now D'Artagnan has his say. And just for you Tidia if you are still reading, here is some D'Artagnan whump! Hope you all enjoy.
Once again I sadly do not own The Musketeers, but a girl can dream.
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Chapter 4
D'Artagnan
Rolling over in bed, feeling Constance's soft warm body next to his, a swell of contentment filled D'Artagnan. A smile automatically taking over his handsome face. This amazing woman was his wife. Yesterday they had stood in Church and announced their love for each other before God and the world! He had not felt such a deep sense of joy since the day he had been commissioned. As always there came a moment of sadness that his father had not been there to see him married, just as he had wished him present when he knelt before the King and stood a musketeer at last.
His father would have loved Constance, although in his heart D'Artagnan knew he would never have condoned him engaging in a relationship with a married woman. A brief clench of guilt squeezed at his gut as Bonicieux came to mind. D'Artagnan had done more than a few things this last year that he was less than proud of, and the brief moment when he had genuinely considered letting Bonicieux die, without attempting to assist him, was perhaps the heaviest on his conscience. It was a moment when he had abandoned his honour. He was also dissatisfied with his treatment of Constance in the aftermath of her sudden widowhood. His only excuse was that he was a young man in Love, and sometimes rational thought and concepts such as honour can be overtaken by desperate passion. No, he was not impressed with his reflection on such actions. But now, as he gazed at his beautiful, wonderful, beloved Constance he promised himself that he would be better. He would honour and cherish her forever. He would love and protect her, and strive to be worthy of this amazing woman at his side. Again the joy infused his body and he drew her closer to him. A sleepy contented sound escaping from her lips as she snuggled close, smiling in her sleep. After all that had happened. The desperate dash to save Constance and Aramis. The terrible risk to them all. He felt almost guilty for feeling such true happiness. But no! This was what they fought for. For their family, for love, friendship and brotherhood. And he vowed again he would spend every day granted to him seeking to remain worthy of the incredible woman.
But war was looming. Each day moving closer to the inevitable. He and his fellow musketeers were frequently called away to escort Louis to secret rendezvous' with nobles and potential allies from within and with out France's borders. Secret documents, and even monies to fill the war chest, were delivered under cover of darkness and fear of Spanish spies. After all one had managed to infiltrate the Kings most trusted inner circle. Who's to say if there were others highly placed? While the soldier in D'Artagnan craved the excitement of such intrigues, the husband hated to see the fear in Constance eyes every time she waved him off on a mission. She is a strong woman, and she accepts the realities of being a soldier's wife, but it still pains him to put her through the worry and fear.
Then there are his brothers. So much has changed there too. Aramis is gone, and he misses him greatly. And Athos - Treville could not have picked a finer replacement. D'Artagnan laughingly admits to himself that he has lost none of his awe and wonder for the man. He values his opinion as much now as he did as a raw recruit. He can't imagine that he will ever grow out of the desire for his approval and respect. But now Athos has a new role, one that allows him less time with his brothers. Oh, he is still very much a part of D'Artagnan and Porthos lives, but there are less nights with them in the tavern. Fewer missions were he accompanies them, and fewer opportunities for him to dine with the newly weds at their home. While he may not be miles away sequestered in an Abbé, D'Artagnan can't help but find that he misses him too.
And Porthos . He seems to have it worst with all the changes. D'Artagnan has the draw and delights of a new wife to lift his spirits and fill his time. Athos has the demands of Captaincy. Whereas Porthos has lost his best friend, and another is distanced by duty. Not that he says anything, he still laughs his booming laugh. He still cheats heartily at cards. And he still spars with alacrity in the practice yard. But D'Artagnan notices the moments when he is silent. When the smile doesn't reach his eyes, and when the laugh is faked. D'Artagnan has always valued Porthos. But as they spend more time together without their brothers they begin to know each other better. Athos trusts them with the most secret and important missions. Trusts their skills, ability to strategise, to improvise and work with synchronicity. So they spend more time together. Travelling long roads. Camping in cold woods or staying in draughty inns, or barns. Gradually D'Artagnan learns more about his large friend. As they sit by camp fires keeping watch he tells him of his childhood. The scratching to survive. Forced to steal. Learning to cheat at cards, not for fun, but to feed himself, Flea and Charon, and other children from the court of miracles who would never make it to adulthood. With a slight crack in his voice Porthos tells him how he feels part of his desire to succeed as a musketeer comes from the recognition that he owes it to the memories of all the others who never made it out. Out of childhood. Out of the Court. And D'Artagnan understands now, the absolute certainty Athos and Aramis had had that Porthos did not kill the young man in the alley when he had been accused and sentenced to death. He knows now why Aramis threw him up against a wall when D'Artagnan questioned if Porthos might have accidentally shot him. Because, the more he knows Porthos, he realises that he is a protector. Capable of violence in battle, or to defend the innocent, but a protector nonetheless. He would never have killed an innocent when drunk. When D'Artagnan blurted out this guilty revelation one day, Porthos just laughed, clapped him on the back and told him "Don't be daft whelp! I wasn't even sure for a while that I hadn't done it."
D'Artagnan shared his own stories of growing up in Gascony, the beauty of the region, the kindness of his Father and Mother, his craving for adventure, and ability to get himself into scrapes with alarming regularity! D'Artagnan recognised that Porthos needed these times even more than he did. When they were away on missions it was clear how much he missed Athos and Aramis. He shared more wild stories of the adventures the three of them had experienced before D'Artagnan joined them, and D'Artagnan delighted in the tales of daring as much as he ever had in the early days in their company. Porthos was a frequent and welcomed guest for dinner. Constance loved his humour and stories too, and his kind and genuine nature. He didn't possess the obvious charm of Aramis, nor the fine courtly manners of the former Comte Athos. He was just honest, good, down to earth, gentle giant Porthos. He dinned with them at least twice a week when they were at home.
Four months after the wedding Constance's greatest fear almost came to pass.
Porthos and D'Artagnan had been assigned to collect some secret documents from a well placed French spy. They were to meet in a wood not far from the border. The elaborate attempt to throw off Spanish suspicion involving three other sets of musketeers acting as decoys. But D'Artagnan and Porthos would carry the true letters. They made it to about thirty miles from Paris when the attack happened. D'Artagnan's horse died in the first volley of shots. He rolled away and sheltered behind the animals corpse. Porthos' horse had thrown him and bolted. Musketeer horses were trained to cope in battle, but the squeal of it's dying companion had instilled a flight response. Porthos seemed slightly dazed by the fall, shaking his head to clear it, before reaching for his pistol. D'Artagnan shot one of the attackers who was about to shoot the disorientated musketeer. He quickly had to pull his own sword and engage two men approaching him, regaining his feet and attempting to keep a peripheral eye on Porthos and the other two enemy soldiers. He was relieved to see his friend was now standing, and fighting. After that it was a blur of swords clashing and yelling as they battled to survive. The enemy were good swordsmen, but D'Artagnan had learned from the best. His time as a musketeer had taught him control. The ability to focus and find the enemy's weakness. Athos would have been proud of the way he handled himself, the rash young man becoming the wise and seasoned soldier. His own opponents dead, he turned to help Porthos despatch his final attacker. The two men sharing a brief post adrenalin laugh, acknowledging their relief that they had survived, when D'Artagnan saw it. The first man he had shot raised himself on one elbow harquebus in hand, he must have been quietly priming it while they were fighting for their lives, aiming at Porthos back. Without a thought D'Artagnan jumped to action, pushing the big man out of the way. Then white hot pain was all he knew. Crumpling to the ground with a grunt he heard Porthos scream his name, was vaguely aware of his friend viciously running the shooter through. Next thing he felt was Porthos strong arms pulling him gently into his lap. A litany of "Lemme see" and "it's alright, it's not bad, you're gonna be fine" falling from his lips. And more agony as Porthos pressed down hard on his wound, desperately trying to stop the rapidly flowing red.
"It's gone straight through, just need to stop the bleeding and you'll be fine, ya hear me!"
He was aware of Porthos ripping a shirt from one of the attackers and bandaging the wound tightly. But the pale fabric was rapidly turning crimson.
D'Artagnan drifted out and when he woke again the glow of a fire was at his side. Porthos had his dagger in it, heating. Apologising and saying he would have to cauterise the wound. Then there was pain. Deep. Hot. Blinding. D'Artagnan did not ever recall experiencing such agony, till his mind shut down and the relief of unconsciousness claimed him. He remembers little disjointed bits of the next hours. Every time he drifted back in he was aware of Porthos voice. Sharing Stories. Speaking words of comfort. Telling him that Constance would kill him if he didn't make it home. He came to realise he was also being carried. Cradled against Porthos broad chest. Head nestled against the crook of his neck, aware of the studs of his friend's collar digging into his cheek. His legs and right arm hanging loose while his left arm was held in a sling, bandages covering his left shoulder and chest. He would later learn that Porthos had carried him for more than ten miles. They had been travelling off the regular tracks. The Spanish horses had also bolted. Porthos had looked but found none nearby. With the secret information still to deliver, and not knowing if more Spanish soldiers pursued them (for the men they had fought had definitely spoken Spanish, even if they wore no uniform), with no horses, and D'Artagnan badly injured, Porthos had done the only thing he could. Bundled up weapons and supplies and tied them to his back, again using the enemies clothing. Then carried D'Artagnan, until he could find a horse or some help, avoiding the roads as much as possible in case of further attack. Hours later exhausted he had stumbled across a village and finally been able to commandeer a horse for the final leg of the journey.
D'Artagnan awoke in his own bed. Constance was curled at his side, looking pale and shattered. Porthos snoring gently in a chair beside. He could not help the small groan that escaped him as his wound made itself known. Constance woke immediately, frantic, half awake eyes going straight to D'Artagnan, "You're awake!" She cried, surprise and relief warring on her face. " I thought... I thought... It's been five days!" She stuttered. Then her eyes filled and she threw her arms round D'Artagnan, sobbing with relief. He just held her trembling form, mumbling apologies and any words of love and comfort that could form in his groggy mind. Porthos big hand squeezed his uninjured shoulder. Big grin taking over his face "Welcome back lad. You been causing that lass of yours and me no end of worry. Your wound was infected. Nasty fever. It broke yesterday, thank God. You don't believe in doin' things by half, do ya?" For a moment the grin fell, and D'Artagnan could see the worry and exhaustion bleeding into his friends dark eyes, before he shook himself assuring him "but your fine now. Shoulder should heal up good and proper, and ya never were much cop with yer left hand anyways" cheeky grin appearing across his scarred face once again.
As the healing process continued D'Artagnan heard how devastated Constance had been when she saw him. How Porthos had never left his side, supporting and comforting Constance, and sharing in all his care. Athos had been present as frequently as he could when not called away by the King or urgent Musketeer business. He learnt of Porthos guilt that D'Artagnan had been shot protecting him. He quickly tried to reassure the larger man that he was not to blame, that he had simply done his duty. But Porthos reminded him he had responsibilities now - he needed to consider Constance. After as much arguing the point as a convalescing D'Artagnan could handle, he knew he had to let it drop. It would take a lot for Porthos to accept what had happened. But what D'Artagnan did remember from immediately after the shooting, was the life line of Porthos voice in his ear, and the comfort and protection that surrounded him as he carried him all those miles. Then the kindness and support of his presence for both him and Constance as he gradually recovered.
Finally back on his feet and returning to duty three weeks later D'Artagnan knew that Constance worry for him had increased exponentially. But, as the strong, amazing woman she was, she continued to accept that to love a soldier meant she must live with such fear. And she assured D'Artagnan that he was worth the risk.
His friendship with Porthos had also grown, forged stronger by the fire of injury and fear, love and support. So when Porthos disappeared a few weeks later, and then the word came of his death, both DArtagnan and Constance grief was deep and crushing and consuming. That is until she turned up at their door. Beautiful and poised as ever, demanding that he get in touch with Athos.
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It's probably very clear that I have no medical knowledge, sorry.
Thanks so much for reading. Please review if you have the chance, they do so encourage me.
Can't believe we haven't got to Aramis yet. Next chapter should pick up at the end of the first, and the one after should catch up with Aramis. Then I'm thinking the final few as the boys seek out their missing brother...with a little help! At least that's the plan at the moment. Probably 7 or 8 chapters in all.