IX
December 1637
"It is too cold to keep the congregation waiting any longer, we will have to start without Aramis," Athos growled, swinging around to pace the few feet back the other way.
Every able-bodied individual on the estate had turned out to pack the village church to capacity, which, given the weather, was no bad thing. At least they were generating their own warmth.
"He's usually late, but this is beyond the pale," d'Artagnan muttered, peeping through the tiniest crack he could make without opening the ancient double doors fronting the narthex of the stone chapel. The tiny vestibule was freezing cold, their words lingering frostily in the air.
"He'll probably be late to his own funeral." Porthos, a little girl on his right arm, the baby in his left, glanced through the crack in the second set of double doors at the back of the sanctuary.
"That's because he is a very important person," Marie said gravely, patting Porthos' silk-clad shoulder. "The war waits on no man," she quoted, her tone and cadence a perfect match for the First Minister's. "But he always keeps his promises, even if it takes him a day or two," she intoned solemnly.
"You're perfectly right, Tiny Mite," Porthos agreed, laughing as he kissed the little girl on the forehead. Her impersonation was spot on. "Our Aramis will be here, even if it is tomorrow or the next day before he can make it. I'm going to put you down so can run back to maman and tell her it's time to start."
d'Artagnan suppressed the shudder that ran down his spine every time he encountered the little girl from the monastery. Against all odds - or, sinisterly, perhaps not - Marie and Luc had survived a Grimaud-led massacre of the inhabitants of the Douai monastery, then made their way leagues south to Paris and eventually to the Musketeers by way of a small theft witnessed in the market place near the garrison.
The current captain of the Musketeers closed the outer door firmly, turning to raise an eyebrow at the comte. "I agree. I'm freezing and have I on far more clothing than most of the women in this church."
The horrifying tale the practically starving children had had to tell had left the war heroes with churning stomachs and a steel-edged fury that had fueled an intense, ongoing search for the war mongering bastard who had perpetrated the atrocity.
Porthos bent his tall frame to set Marie on her feet and drew open the door for her, watching every head turn as his little faery scampered down the middle aisle trailing the ends of a large warm shawl Elodie had tucked her up in. Marie-Cessette slept on peacefully, as secure in her papa's elbow as if she'd been in her sleeping basket.
"Maman," Marie called in her high, piping voice, before she'd passed half-a-dozen pews and with a dozen yet to go, "Papa says to tell you it's time to start!"
They'd found employment for Luc in the stables while Constance had arranged for Marie to live at the Louvre as companion to the young king. Marie had been in transports of delight, the queen equally enamored with her son's playmate. Though it had become apparent the little girl needed something more when Marie had asked to call Aramis papa and Anne, maman. Porthos, hearing the story from a beleaguered Aramis, who had been finding trying to parent without the authority of being papa a trifle difficult, had immediately offered a solution
Marie and Marie-Cessette were sisters now, and Aramis' Tiny Mite had a real maman and papa, not just people she could refer to that way.
"Well then, I'll just rejoin m'family," Porthos said, opening the door again. He parted company with his friends, striding down the center aisle to the front pew where he gathered his whole family inside his arms just like a big mother hen. His little harem cuddled right up, thankful for his warmth.
Athos caught the door and he and d'Artagnan moved around to the side aisle to collect their wives from the rector's vestry.
Sylvie and Constance looked up together. "Is he here finally?"
"No, but we are not waiting any longer."
"You will have to squeeze together as it is, with all of you up there," the parish priest opined, collecting a batch of parchments as he rose behind his desk. "One more will hardly be missed."
"Father Raimund is joking, in case you missed the cue," Athos translated. "Come, let us get this business over with."
"Like Father Raimund, Athos is also joking," Sylvie added with a private smirk for her husband as she handed over baby Hubert to his father, straightening the long gown the comte had unearthed from a cedar chest in the attic. Though the outside of the trunk had been licked by tongues of flame, the interior had sheltered the generations-old christening dress pristinely. Not only Athos, but his father, his grandfather, and his grandfather's father before him had worn the gown. It smelled of cedar and the history of de la Fère ancestors.
Athos, Sylvie and Hubert slipped into the right front pew as d'Artagnan and Constance joined Porthos, Elodie and the girls in the pew across the aisle.
"When do we stand up for the baby?" Marie asked, having learned whispering from her new papa.
"In a little bit," Elodie shushed, pulling Marie onto her lap.
A whoosh of freezing air sucked what warmth the congregation packed into the church had managed to generate and every head craned over shoulders to inspect the late comers.
"Would this be the last one, my lord?" If there was a touch of patient weariness in the priest's voice, Athos did not remark it.
"ARAMIS!" Marie slid off maman's lap like an eel, eluding Elodie's and then Porthos' grasp, to shoot back up the aisle.
"It is," Athos returned as Aramis ushered in a woman and a little boy before wrestling the doors closed again. "I'm going to run him through."
"Please refrain from committing murder in the God's house." Father Raimund didn't bother lowering his voice either.
"Hello Tiny Mite," Aramis greeted as Marie threw herself at him. "We're in a church, we have to be quiet, remember?"
"I remember," the clear voice assured her idol. "Like we had to be quiet in the cellar when we were hiding from those bad men who killed Father Abbot. Hello Louis."
"Hello, Marie, Aramis did not tell me you were to be here too. When did you arrive?"
"Shhhhhh, both of you. This is one of those times we have to practice being quiet as a mouse."
"Or a snake." Marie shivered deliciously.
"Are there snakes in here," the little boy asked interestedly, squatting to peer under pews.
"No, there are no snakes in here."
The church rustled with amusement, though several feet were instinctively lifted off the floor and not a few trailing cloaks were whipped tightly around an owner's legs. Aramis swung the little girl up on his hip, even as he offered his arm to the cloaked, hooded and veiled lady attempting to convince the little boy snakes did not live in sanctuaries, even in the wilderness of Pinon.
The woman declined Aramis' arm and slid into an open spot three rows from the back, pulling the disappointed boy onto her lap.
Aramis waited until they were settled, then strode down the center aisle with Marie, genuflected before the alter, and seated himself and his grinning baggage in the empty spot next to Porthos.
"'Bout time," Porthos said out of the side of his mouth, as d'Artagnan leaned forward to glare at their tardy teammate.
"May we continue?" Athos raised that ubiquitous eyebrow at his tardy friend, his face perfectly blank despite the giggles he could feel his wife ruthlessly repressing.
Aramis gracefully offered a universal 'roll on' gesture accompanied by the merest hint of a bow from the waist and winked audaciously.
"Do we stand up with the baby now?"
"Not yet." Elodie reached around her husband in an attempt to take back her daughter, who clung like a limpet to Aramis' neck.
"She's fine." Aramis waved off Elodie. "Marie," he admonished, unwrapping the small hands from around his neck to seat her in his lap. "Quiet," he reminded, setting a finger to his lips. She put a finger to her own lips, nestling down obediently. Aramis kissed the top of the blonde head and gathered his composure.
Athos indicated the priest should get on with it.
Father Raimund, mindful of the fact it was Christmas Eve and his congregation was anxious to get their first look at the public rooms of the newly restored mansion, kept his opening remarks brief, concluding with, "Our Lord commanded his own disciples - Suffer the little children, and forbid them not to come unto me: for of such is the kingdom of heaven. Today we have three little ones to celebrate; as I call the children's names, parents please bring them forward." He lifted the parchments in his hand, clipped a pair of glasses on his nose and commenced the reading of the names. "Hubert Olivier de la Fère, Marie-Cessette du Vallon, and Marie Christine du Vallon."
The general raised a mystified, inquiring eyebrow in the comte's direction, employing their old voiceless communication.
Athos shrugged, looked pointedly at Aramis, and rose, lifting Sylvie by the elbow. A flick of the wrist and he asked, silently, if Porthos had objections. General du Vallon wordlessly consulted his wife, and the pair rose together.
A sigh rolled through the sanctuary as two additional Musketeers rose, one turning to assist his wife, the second still with the little girl in his arms, as Father Raimund requested the godparents join the two couples at the baptismal fount.
"Do you mind?" Aramis asked, taking up a position behind Elodie's right shoulder. He took the inscrutable smile cast in his direction as consent, if not overmastering joy.
Elodie was willing to follow her husband's lead on this; she had no objections to having the girls baptized, though neither did she expect it would have any great benefit. Religion had not served her well in the past.
The front of the church was indeed crowded as the priest had predicted, though the company looked entirely comfortable rubbing elbows and shoulders so intimately.
Father Raimund laid the baptismal certificates on the alter and began lighting candles. "This flame represents the light of God's love surrounding these children our gracious God has seen fit to place in your homes," he said as he passed candles to each of the adults.
"What are we doing now?" Marie stage-whispered in Aramis' ear.
"We're going to promise to take care of Hubert and Marie-Cessette and you, if anything ever happens to your parents."
"Oh. Did you promise my first maman and papa to take care of me if something happened to them? Is that why we were at the monastery?"
"Uh, no, can we talk about this later?"
"I suppose." Marie sighed gustily, grabbing a handful of Aramis' coat to anchor herself as she leaned forward to peer around Elodie. "Are we all going to take care of baby Hubert? Like I take care of Marie-Cessette?"
"Exactly like you take care of Marie-Cessette," Elodie agreed, trying again to shush her daughter.
"Why aren't Auntie Anne and Louis up here? Aren't they going to promise to take care of Hubert and Marie-Cessette too?"
"I thought she was the mute one at the monastery." Athos shot an admonitory glare at Aramis, who was struggling to rein in his armful.
"Can I hold the candle, Aramis?"
"Certainly you may." Aramis blew out the flame, tilted the candle to pour off the hot wax and handed it to Marie. "Now Father Raimund is going to ask some questions and you must put on your listening ears so you can answer. That means you have to close your mouth, right?"
Marie compressed her lips and widened her eyes. "Like this?" she mumbled.
"Perfect." Aramis mimicked her thin-lipped mumble. "Maman is going to hold you so that you will be together as a family," he said, passing the little girl to Elodie. And to the priest, "I'm sorry."
The priest inclined his head, pursing his own lips to hold back the smile threatening his impassivity. "As parents, and godparents, it is your duty to keep the flame alight, to craft an atmosphere in which to train up your children in the light of God's love. Do you so vow?"
"We do," six adult voices replied. The seventh moved his lips; Athos was not inclined to make promises he was not certain he intended to keep.
"As godparents, should the unthinkable happen to any one of these parents, do you accept the physical and spiritual responsibility of caring for these children should they be orphaned? Do you agree to watch over and care for these tender souls as if they were your own? Will you pray for them and over them and with them? Will you work to draw them into the community of faith?"
"We will," Aramis, Constance and d'Artagnan replied in unison. d'Artagnan slanted a sideways grin at his wife.
"The sacrament of water," Father Raimund continued, dipping his fingers in the fount to sprinkle water on each of the babies, then Marie, who crinkled her nose and wiped her arm across her face but kept her lips compressed, "represents God giving his divine life to those who believe in him." He took up the vial of oil. "Oil-
Marie-Cessette woke with a wail as Father Raimund made the sign of the cross on her forehead. He merely raised his voice over the howl. "Oil softens, heals, comforts and protects. The oil of catechumens is a sign of strength, imparting the power to resist evil." He anointed Marie and moved on to Hubert. "These children, strengthened by the gift of God's Spirit, will be guided and guarded by God on every step of life's journey."
Hubert, by far the most composed of the lot, slept peacefully in his father's arm right up to the moment the blessed oil slid down the snub nose he'd inherited from his mother. A fist went to his mouth as the blue eyes opened sleepily, crossing to watch the drop of oil until Sylvie blotted it with a soft handkerchief. The tiny hands came up to wave excitedly at this recognized face, the baby burbling a happy coo as he caught a finger.
"Let us pray." Father Raimund turned to the congregation, lifting his arms to include all in the blessing. "O God, our father, giver of all good gifts, may your presence be always with these children we present before you this day, may they grow in wisdom and stature as did your own son you gave to us as savior and redeemer. Make these new parents vessels of your grace and love, empower in them, the virtues of patience and courage and strength to navigate the journey ahead. Surround these children with your love, protect them from evil. At this Christmas tide, we ask your blessings upon these new members of our congregation, upon their parents, upon each member of our parish and every guest who has joined us here today in celebration. We ask these things, humbly, in the name of Mary the mother of Jesus, who bore our redeemer, amen."
"Shades of Father Grandier," d'Artagnan murmured for Athos' ears alone.
"The reason he still employed here in Pinon," Athos replied equally softly as he switched the baby to his other arm.
Father Raimund took up the baptismal certificates again, handing the first to Marie. Elodie gaped at it as Porthos accepted Marie-Cessette's before Father Raimund turned to hand Hubert's to Sylvie, whose mouth dropped open as well. And not just because they were personally signed by Jean-François de Gondi, the Bishop of Paris, and Pope Urban VIII.
"Who did these?" Sylvie asked Father Raimund.
"That would be Aramis' work," Athos answered before the priest could reply.
"Aramis," Sylvie echoed. "I did not know you're an artist! These should be hanging in the Louvre. They are works of art."
Undoubtedly there was another of these hanging somewhere in the Louvre, though Athos kept the thought to himself. He was also grateful his wife had never been the recipient of any of Aramis' artwork.
"And each one different," Elodie exclaimed. "Aramis, thank you!" She turned to hug the Minister. "I'm sure the children will treasure these gifts forever. I know I will! We must have these preserved and framed."
The baptismal certificates bore the full names of each child, the official signatures, including Father Raimund's as the officiate, and the date, but those were the only similarities.
Hubert's was bordered by crossed swords with the de la Fère coat of arms reproduced in the upper right corner. But there was whimsy, too, in the lion-sized pussycat a small knight rode like a steed, wooden sword aloft, the open helmet revealing what Athos might have looked like as a child. Opposite, in the bottom right corner, a little dragon, each scale meticulously drawn and painted a brilliant metallic green, purple wings spread menacingly, breathed fire up at the youthful knight.
A forest of miniature trees formed the border of Marie-Cessette's, a bow and quiver etched into each outer corner of the parchment. In the inside corner, opposite the signatures, a tiny camp fire had been depicted, with a very enceinte Elodie sitting on a boulder affixing a chiseled arrowhead to a slender shaft. Porthos, his leather armor exquisitely detailed, stood looking down on the scene, arms folded over his chest, from the top left corner. While in the top right corner another pussycat lion sat on its haunches looking tenderly down on Marie-Cessette as it rocked the cradle with its tail.
"That's me!" Marie crowed in delight, running her finger over each detail on the parchment Elodie held for her. "And Louis! And that's you, isn't it?" She beamed at Aramis, pointing to the pussycat lion as he leaned over to look at it with her.
Curling vines and flowers grew from each letter of Marie's name, a pair of bluebirds nested in the bottom of the 'C' of Christine and a tiny version of the pussycat lion slept curled on top of the 'N' in du Vallon. Beneath her calligraphied name, the three signatures appeared to be appended to the back of shelves of toys in an open cupboard. Louis and Marie were depicted in the palace playroom, engaged in building towers with brilliantly hued blocks on a rug in the middle of the room. Unobtrusive in the doorway, the lion pussycat, wearing the boots, hat and cape of a Musketeer, stood on its haunches, the brandished sword a clear warning to any who sought to harm its charges within.
"Oh look!" Marie craned over Elodie's arm to look at her sister's certificate. "You're in Cessette's too! Rocking her cradle with your tail! Are you in Hubert's also? I want to see!"
"You may look at Hubert's when we get back to the house." Aramis lifted the squirming girl back into his arms. Elodie might be a fearsome archer, but she was a slight little thing despite her growing belly.
"But are you in it?"
"Of course, it is my job to watch over every one of you."
"What are you doing in Hubert's?"
"I am his trusty steed."
Marie's peal of laughter rang through the rafters of the quaint old church like the bells of a Paris cathedral. There was not one grumpy face in the lot as the parishioners followed the comte, his wife and their friends down the aisle and out into the briskly cold afternoon.
"Your Maj-" Athos began, only to interrupted.
Anne raised an imperative hand. "Not today." She had Louis on her hip just like any other mother and stood with Aramis on the church steps. "We are not here on official business, I would prefer just to blend in and be one of the crowd today."
Athos glared at Aramis. "Unwise," he clipped, "I would never have allowed this," he added in an undertone for Aramis' ears only, inclining his head to the queen. "Very well, Madame, but we cannot call you Anne and Louis."
"You think I could have stopped her?"
Anne laid a hand on Aramis' arm. "Then we will be Mistress Beth and her son, Michel for this afternoon," the queen replied from behind her dark veil.
"It will be as you wish, Mistress Beth," Sylvie assured, feeling the muscles tense in her husband's forearm. "We are so pleased you and Aramis could be with us today, ma'am. Thank you for coming."
"It is my pleasure, I assure you."
They walked back to the house, Athos, Sylvie and the baby in the middle, the flanking Musketeers in their usual places; d'Artagnan to the left, Aramis, the queen and Porthos to the right, wives and children inserted between spouses.
As if someone had whispered a command, the raggedy line stopped as one as the house came into view across the winter dormant lawn. Of their own accord, the ends gravitated together, forming a circle.
Athos took his wife's hand, Sylvie reached for Aramis and Marie, who connected Anne to the group. The queen slipped her hand into Porthos'. He snagged his wife's elbow, Constance reached for Elodie and d'Artagnan closed the circle by tucking a hand through Athos' crooked elbow, careful not to poke the sleeping Hubert.
Athos took a moment to meet each gaze around the circle. "You all know speeches were never a strong point of mine, but we want to thank you for being here for us today. Porthos, Elodie, thank you for allowing your children to be part of this ..." he had to clear his throat. "I am reminded again that it does not matter where we roam, where we settle, or what we do. Because it lives in us, we are the garrison."
Beside Athos, d'Artagnan sent a glance around the circle. "All for one."
"One for all," came the echoing response. They broke apart with smiles and laughter, heading into the house.
It occurred to Athos, as he followed his wife and guests into the house, they must have looked a sight, circled like pagans celebrating some rite, as the straggling villagers came up the hill behind them. He did care. The garrison was home; it had given him a second chance, brought into his life friends who had become brothers, shaped him into a leader and afforded him the opportunity to find love again.
It would always be a part of him.
This has been a work of transformative fan fiction. The characters and settings in this story belong to the British Broadcasting Company, its successors and assigns. And before that, Alexander Dumas, their creator. The story itself is the intellectual property of the author. No copyright infringement has been perpetrated for financial gain.
A/N: As this story was written for a community Big Bang, every author who participated was paired with an artist who did artwork for the stories. If you would like to see the artwork adrenalineshots created, you can visit it by going to Archive of Our Own and typing in M_LadyinWaiting in the search box. You do not have to have an AO3 account to read on the archive. The pictures are gorgeous and really make the story live in a way mere words can't express. My thanks also to Annejackdanny who beta'd this story more than once and to Barbara69, who graciously allowed me to borrow Marie's circumstances from her story, You Failed to Fear My Wrath.