Summer, 1633

Morning

Porthos stood in the centre of the road watching the hooded man as he rode up. The horse slowed to a trot then came to a stop beside the musketeer. The man did not remove his hood. He handed a large bundle to Porthos, wrapped in the blue cloak of a musketeer, nodded once and then turned his horse.

Porthos clutched the cloak to his chest as he watched the hooded man gallop away without so much as a backward glance.

-o-

Porthos was almost back in the forest of Bourbon-Les-Eaux when he felt the bundle wiggle and let out a whine. He looked down to see a pair of bright blue eyes staring up at him from the folds of Aramis' cloak. He sighed and quickened his pace. He knew she wouldn't tolerate being carried for long and sure enough, she was kicking and twisting within minutes and calling out "papa" as well as a word that was probably "down."

He reached the safety of the trees and put her down, removing the cloak and tying it around his own shoulders. Isabelle d'Herblay stood for a moment looking around, clearly frightened. She was dressed in a simple white smock and someone had tied a bow in her thick black hair. They had probably taken pains to make her look presentable but the effect had been ruined by her falling asleep wrapped in a cloak. Now she just looked messy and unkempt.

"Papa?" She called out.

"He'll be back…soon." Was a week soon when you were two-years-old? He wondered.

"Papa!"

And then she began wailing.

-o-

Arriving at the pool of milky water with Isabelle crying and dangling from his arms was not how Porthos had imagined reuniting the queen with her child. But life had never treated Porthos fairly and so he should not have been surprised that Anne's first look at Isabelle, as she emerged from her bathing tent, was of her kicking and twisting in his grip and wailing so loudly one might think the devil himself had hold of her.

"Put her down!" Anne commanded and then seemed to freeze. She fell silent, went pale.

Porthos obeyed.

Isabelle, her freedom now given to her, stopped screeching abruptly. Porthos guessed she probably would have made of run for it if she hadn't been stricken by the strange woman in front of her and the way she was being stared at.

One long pause followed and then…

The Queen finally started forward, hand reaching out and the little girl clutched at Porthos' leg.

Behind the Queen, Constance stepped out of the tent and Isabelle let out a little cry and darted over to her, "Con-Con," she wailed, grasping at her skirts. Porthos' jaw clenched at the little girl's distress.

Constance picked the child up and Isabelle pressed against her. Porthos could see the devastation on Anne's face.

"We should go inside, your majesty." Porthos said. Athos and D'Artagnan were out in the woods, ensuring that there were no trespassers to observe them, but it would still be wise with the Queen's emotions so unguarded.

"Of course." She led the way inside.

Constance carried Isabelle into the tent. Porthos stayed outside, turning his back to the door to better scan the trees. He could hear every word through the thin fabric; Constance's gentle shushing and reassurances and finally Anne began, softly, to talk to her daughter.

It really wasn't all that long, in the grand scheme of things, before he could hear Isabelle's mangled replies.

Porthos drew a long breath. Children were so resilient.

Midday

Porthos watched from the ridge, Athos at his side. Below, in the shallows of the pool, Anne sat with Isabelle as the toddler paddled and splashed and giggled. The little girl looked happy, all bright smiles that were tiny mirrors of Aramis' and excited babble. And the Queen seemed almost to glow now the child had relaxed in her company. It should have been the perfect picture.

And yet…

"Aramis should never have agreed to this." He told Athos.

"It is safe."

"I mean, leaving her here and going back to Paris. He should have stayed."

"It is important not to draw the Cardinal's attention." Athos replied. "Aramis' presence here might have done that. This was the only way to keep Isabelle from harm."

Porthos fought down his frustration. "What about the harm of being abandoned in middle of strangers."

"We are hardly strangers." Athos finally turned his head to look at him, probably hearing his anger. "She knows us."

"Barely."

"Aramis took Constance to visit Isabelle several times so that she knows her."

"It's not the same as having a parent to turn to." He fixed his eyes on the little girl and thought of the boy he'd once been, so small and alone on the streets of Paris.

"Believe me, I know."

Afternoon

Porthos sat in the shade. A few feet away, Isabelle napped on a blanket. Anne sat by her side, stroking her hair, with a look of wonder on her face.

"She looks like Aramis." Anne said, her words barely above a whisper.

Porthos smiled. "She does." Then he chuckled. "She's just as much trouble too."

"Is he a good father?"

Porthos rested his head back against the tree. He could tell her that right now, he wasn't so sure. He could also tell her that he was the last person to judge since he didn't know his father and barely remembered what it was like to have a mother. But he settled for, "he loves her very much."

This seemed to satisfy her and she returned her attention to the sleeping child.

Porthos closed his eyes and let his mind drift. The first tendrils of sleep were just coaxing him downwards when a soft word pulled him.

"Poco princesa."

He opened his eyes.

Perhaps his jerking movements alerted the queen for looked questioningly at him.

"Aramis calls her that sometimes."

"It's Spanish," Anne told him, "for little princess." She looked down at her child again and smiled so softly, so beautifully. "That's what you are," she whispered, "a little Spanish princess. And you should wear a crown…"

Isabelle snuffled in her sleep and Anne removed her hand, clearly fearful that she'd woken her. She went to get up, something like panic crossing her features. Porthos motioned for her to stay then put his finger to his lips. He got up himself. If anyone were to move to prevent conversation from waking the child, of course it should be him.

She smiled gratefully and he bowed respectfully.

-o-

Porthos returned sometime later to find Anne rocking a drowsy but otherwise awake Isabelle on her lap. She looked up at his approach and smiled. He held out a crown made of wildflowers.

"Just…" he said as she took it, "…don't tell anyone I made it."

Evening

D'Artagnan used the flickering light from the fire to make shadow puppets on the tent: a bird, a dog, a deer… Isabelle watched and giggled from her perch on the Queen's lap. She was covered in dirt, her dress was torn and her hair had dried into a mess of knots. The crown of flowers on her head had wilted and she looked about as far from a Spanish princess as it was possible to get but Anne did not seem to mind.

Porthos hid a smile as he watched her. Her complete dishevelment reminded him of Aramis, not long after they had met, and the young man had been forced to flee, naked, through a river and several hedges to avoid being shot by a cuckolded husband.

The smile fell when the Queen's other maid, Sophie, curtsied and said. "We should go your majesty." Her voice was carefully neutral. If she knew of Anne's secret, it did not show on her face.

Anne hid her reluctance well, releasing Isabelle and rising to her feet. They all stood up respectfully.

"Constance," she said, "I will tell the guard of the chateau that you are preparing for our return here tomorrow. They will expect you later."

"Thank you, your majesty."

Anne knelt in front of Isabelle, "I will see you tomorrow."

The child merely looked at all the standing adults and tugged at D'Artagnan's clothes, "'Gain, 'gain," she pleaded and she flapped her hand to make a shadow. "Me do it."

Porthos saw the sadness that Anne tried to hide. Despite his frustration at the situation that had been forced upon Isabelle, he couldn't help the wave of pity he felt.

Night

Isabelle took a long time to settle. They could not risk taking the child to servant's quarters they had been allotted at the chateau so they had set up one of the military tents deep in the forest. They would take it in turns to sleep there with Isabelle.

Porthos watched as Constance rocked and shushed the crying child. Isabelle sobbed for her papa and for someone she called "Tildy," until exhaustion took over and it melded into a continuous murmur of "ma ma ma ma ma…" that grew fainter and fainter as she finally fell asleep.

Mama, Porthos thought. The beginning and the end of the world when you were a child. She's here. He wanted to tell her.

How many nights after his mother died had he fallen asleep like this? He didn't know. But he remembered the pain still.

He watched sadly as Constance laid her down on the quilts and tucked her in. She waited long moments until she was sure that the child was fully asleep before slipping from the tent.

Alone now, Porthos settled down at the child's side and closed his eyes. "You're father's an idiot." He told her softly. "You'd better get used to it."