Summer, 1636
Morning
It was the last day.
D'Artagnan was familiar with it now. Athos would be silent. Porthos still laughing but a little too loudly now, as if he was trying to make up for the sinking mood that had settled over them. Aramis, after a week running around after his daughter, would be badly concealing how tired and impatient he had become as he prepared to take the little girl away from Anne again. The Queen would be stiff and formal, allowing none of the heartache that she must surely feel show on her face. And for himself…
He and Constance would be snatching as many last stolen moments as they could.
D'Artagnan's heart ached. Not this year. Not any year.
Constance was gone; poisoned by Milady in an act of bitter cruelty and revenge.
He sat on the ridge, in the very spot that he and Constance had made love the year before, and watched Anne bathe alone in the pool. He could hear sword fighting behind him and didn't need to look to see that it was Athos and Porthos sparing. He knew their swordplay so well that he could hear the difference in their individual styles in the same way he could tell their voices apart. And Aramis…
The blast of gunfire split the air.
Aramis was teaching his daughter to shoot.
D'Artagnan allowed himself to smile. Constance would approve.
He missed her like he would miss air if it was taken away, that essential part of living torn from him, and it sometimes marvelled him that he was still drawing breath.
But he had found comfort here, at the pool in Bourbon-Les-Eaux, comfort in being in a place that held so many happy memories of Constance. It was almost as if he could hear her voice here.
There was a clattering of feet behind him. "'Tagnan, look."
He twisted around. Isabelle bounced to a stop at his side and held up a dead rabbit. There was an enormous grin on her face.
"Did you shoot that?" He asked.
She nodded.
"From 50 feet." Aramis said and there was more than a hint of pride in his voice. "I could not have done better myself."
D'Artagnan got up and scooped her up into his arms. She giggled. "You are a very clever girl!" He told her. "Have I told you that Porthos makes the best rabbit stew in Paris?"
Midday
The rabbit made an excellent stew. He ate it with Isabelle on his lap again. She had spent more time with him than he ever remembered before. Perhaps she was imitating the concern and care with which the other musketeers were treating him. Perhaps he only noticing her presence more because she was too small a person to fill the massive gap that Constance had left in not just D'Artagnan's heart but in their party and that empty space around her was so visible.
He didn't feel much like eating, but forced himself for Isabelle's sake.
"I don't really like rabbit stew", Constance would point out. "Neither do you."
Porthos put down his bowl. "I fancy a fowl for supper." He declared and clucked Isabelle under the chin with his fingers. She giggled. "I'm counting on you to shoot one."
"And get more blood on her dress, I suppose! Can this child not spend one day clean?"
"No more shooting Isabelle." Aramis said, "you will be spending the afternoon with the Queen."
"But papa –"
"Not buts. You promised the Queen."
She flopped back against D'Artagnan's chest, her shoulder catching him in the bread basket so that all the air huffed out.
"Maybe Queen will come shooting too." Isabelle said.
"Now that I'd like to see."
Afternoon
As D'Artagnan worked, he could hear Isabelle laughing in the distance. If he looked up he would see her playing at the edge of the pool with her mother and father.
But he kept his head down and concentrated on the knife in his hand. It was easier that way, to pretend.
Constance was here, in their special place on the ridge, standing behind him and splitting her time between admiring his work and watching the Queen and Isabelle.
There was a loud splash, followed by a peel of Isabelle's giggles.
"I envy them." Constance said.
He dug harder with his knife, bit down on his lip.
"I wanted a life like that."
Wanted. Past tense. Dear God. He could taste blood.
"I wanted to love a child. I wanted to know what it felt like," her voice was so soft, so real, "to love my own child."
The knife trembled in his hand. His vision blurred, eyes hot with unshed tears. He drew a shaky breath and tried to continue but the knife slipped from his fingers.
"I wanted to leave a part of me behind."
D'Artagnan fell to his knees, harsh sobs finally breaking free. They shook his body with a force that he was helpless against so he let them come.
He jerked when he felt hands on him, arms pulling him in. He relaxed a bare second later as his body recognised the familiar warmth as Athos and sank into it.
-o-
The musketeer had merely held him as he cried, remaining silent and still, and D'Artagnan was glad of it. Any noise would have driven the sound of Constance's voice from his mind and he could not bear to lose that as well.
Time passed. His tears faded. Athos' arms slipped from around him. The sun began to set.
When finally D'Artagnan drew himself up enough to look over at his friend, he found Athos examining his knife. Did he think that D'Artagnan was intending to use it on himself, he wondered.
"I have nothing left of her, Athos." He told him. "Nothing but memories. They are so strong here, where she was happy." Right here, he wanted to tell him, on this very ground on which they sat, where he and Constance had made love in the hope of creating a life. He drew Athos' attention up to the bark of the tree. "I wanted to leave something of her behind."
Athos got to his feet. He looked at the tree that D'Artagnan was pointing at. He had carved CONSTAN in the bark before his grief had overwhelmed him.
D'Artagnan got up. He took his knife from Athos' unresisting fingers but when he moved to finish his work, he found his hand trembled too much. The blade barely made a mark.
Athos put his hand over D'Artagnan's, guiding it and pressing against it to give his fingers strength. "I will help you."
Evening
The day darkened around them, gradually stealing away the word he and Athos had carved. But it was still there. It would always be there.
D'Artagnan reached out and traced the letters with his fingers.
CONSTANCE.
"It is my fault she is dead." Athos' voice broke the silence that had fallen between them.
"Milady killed Constance," D'Artagnan said. "Not you."
"If I had handed Milady over to justice instead of sending her away, she –"
"You showed her mercy." He told her. "And she repaid us with brutality. No one blames you for her actions." And he laid a hand on his friends shoulder. "Only she can answer for her crimes, Athos."
"'Tagnan! Athos!" Isabelle's voice and D'Artagnan welcomed it.
"Up here!" He leaned over the ridge to see the little girl on the ground below.
"Papa says you have to say goodbye to me."
-o-
D'Artagnan soothed the restless horse as it whinnied impatiently at his master. Aramis patted his horse comfortingly before he knelt down and carefully closed a small black cloak about Isabelle's shoulders.
The Queen crouched at their sides. "Goodbye, Isabelle," she said and D'Artagnan marvelled at the controlled and calm tenor of her voice.
She hugged the little girl for a long moment. When she finally let go, there was a momentary flash of deep, deep sorrow. But it was gone as soon as she stood up, tall
and proud. D'Artagnan might almost have thought he imagined it. But he knew, all too well, what the pain of loss looked like.
Aramis pulled the hood over his child's face, completely concealing her and also, D'Artagnan realised, hid from her that flash of terrible grief on Anne's face.
Aramis swung up onto his horse and D'Artagnan lifted Isabelle up and helped her settle against her father's chest.
Then he clicked his horse and rode away.
Night
There was a shadow ahead of D'Artagnan, on the other side of the châteaux's parapet, looking out into the night. He had seen one of the Queen's maids when he'd stepped out here, but had not really questioned it, assuming she too was taking a midnight walk. But no.
It was Queen Anne taking a midnight walk.
She turned at his approach and he bowed. "Your majesty," he said. "I apologise for disturbing you."
"You did," she agreed. "But it does not always follow that it was unwelcome. Will you walk with me?"
"It would be an honour."
They began to walk along the parapet in silence. D'Artagnan knew it was not his place to speak first.
"I find I cannot sleep when she is gone." The Queen said and he did not need to ask who 'she' was. "Aramis steals the life from Bourbon-Les-Eaux when he steals her away. You do not know how many of these nights I have survived only through Constance's kindness."
Steal. The word lanced through him. D'Artagnan shivered.
"And now she has been stolen from us as well."
"We will get justice for Constance, your majesty." He told her. "We have sworn it."
She smiled, "I do not think that it should be you who comforts me, Monsieur D'Artagnan. You have lost far more than I." She looked away. "I know she loved you more than life."
D'Artagnan's throat tightened and he could not reply. They continued to walk in silence until they reached the end of the parapet, where her maid was waiting with a gown, and the Queen's demeanour changed to formal.
She looked politely at D'Artagnan. "I have faith in your justice," she said as the maid covered her shoulders. "As I have faith in all the King's musketeers."