1As twilight deepens, Anne slips out of the palace and into the garden maze, pulling her cape close around her shoulders. This is insanity, she tells herself, shivering in the evening chill as she hurries along the path.
Only yesterday, she'd taken the King's hand and walked serenely away with him after his brief recognition of the Musketeers' defeat of Rochefort and the public exoneration of her Musketeer. But Aramis had barely met her eyes, standing so resolute and formal. A true soldier of France, Louis had called him. Couldn't you have been a blacksmith or an apothecary? she laments. For now he will always have to be that true soldier of France. War has been declared and she knows in her heart that her precious Aramis will be swept away by that war and she will never see him again.
It is as unthinkable as it is unbearable, but now she believes she has been granted one last chance to see him. She bites her lip, remembering the arrival of the Musketeer cadet, just as afternoon faded into evening, bearing a sealed note. It is addressed to her in the firm, round hand of her great friend Constance, who until yesterday has lived in the palace as the queen's companion for months. She is such a normal part of palace life that no one gives the note a second glance and, indeed, it contains only a time and location.
Constance has been Anne's steadfast confidant, her only intimate ally throughout the past perilous months, and the Queen knows well that her great friend has no reason to meet her in secret on her own wedding night. The note can only mean that Aramis is coming. It is foolish, and wrong, and dangerous, she knows, but she will take every risk for one last goodbye.
Anne knows it can only have been divine intervention that saved them from Rochefort's treachery and returned them to the King's good graces; so many of Rochefort's accusations and charges against them were true. She and Aramis have sinned against the laws of King and Church, and still they have been spared. Their reprieve is both a gift and a warning from God, she believes, something not even a queen can afford to ignore. Even so, she will defy heaven one last time, and she rushes through the deepening darkness to meet her lover amongst the tall, sheltering hedges.
A stealthy rustling in the leaves alerts her, but it is not Aramis who steps into her path. Even in the encroaching darkness she can see that it is Athos who has come to her.
A startled, "Oh," of disappointment escapes her before she can stop herself.
He bows deeply in the murky violet dimness. "Forgive me, Your Majesty," he says, solemn and earnest. "I did not seek to deceive, but you deserve to know this, and I knew that you would read a note from Constance."
She can only stare at him in the darkness, searching his inscrutable face for an explanation. "What?" she finally whispers.
He takes a deep breath, and she senses that he would rather be anywhere than here. "Aramis has resigned his commission," he says in a rush. "He will not be joining us at the front. He has retired to the monastery at Douai. He left immediately after the reception at the palace."
Yesterday. He's been gone since yesterday. He was never coming here. Some feral creature wakes in her chest and it claws and gambols its way into her heart. It suffocates her and her knees waver. Aramis would have noticed and reached out to steady her, even in the most public of places, but Athos would never allow himself such familiarity.
"None of us knew what he'd planned. "
She is grateful for the darkness. Athos can surely not see her brimming eyes.
"A monastery?" she gasps. How could a man as vibrant and free-spirited as her Aramis ever embrace the cloistered life of a monk?
"I cannot pretend to comprehend his reasoning," Athos continues. "During his imprisonment he made some sort of vow to God and…" He sighs then, shaking his head. "Majesty, God and I are not on particularly intimate terms, but Aramis… I neither seek to question his faith nor claim to understand it, but he has sworn to protect you and the Dauphin and he must believe that going to Douai will accomplish that."
Anne realizes that Athos, with his halting explanation, has come as close to acceptance of her relationship with Aramis as he can. "Twas a bargain," she whispers. "He's sold his soul to keep us safe."
"Majesty?"
"Like Faustus, only he traded himself to God instead of the devil."
She can barely see the tilt of Athos's head. "I had not considered that but Aramis's logic has sometimes escaped me."
He pulls a sealed parchment from his doublet and hands it to her. "He left this in my quarters, addressed to you. I am certain you would have preferred to receive it from Constance, but now that we are bound for the northern front, she is spending these last few hours with her husband."
She clutches it to her heart as though it is a living thing to be held and comforted. "Please apologize to Constance and d'Artagnon for me," she whispers. "I was unable to leave the palace for their wedding." She does not tell him that Louis had told her that, "You consort too much with these commoners, My Dear. It is unseemly," and forbidden her to leave.
"Of course I will, Your Majesty." He considers a moment before he adds, "I do not know what Aramis has written, but if he has exercised his usual caution and discretion this might be best kept from prying eyes."
She allows herself a tiny smile. With a voice she manages to keep from quavering, she says "I shall be the very heart of prudence." She gazes up at the night sky, where a few stars are beginning to show. "Thank you for this, Athos. I know that you believe us fools, but..."
"Majesty, I have never exercised the best judgment in affairs of the heart. I, too, have loved not wisely..."
"...but too well," she finishes. She takes his hand. "I will pray for you, Athos," she tells him, "and for d'Artagnon, and for Porthos, every day until your safe return. You are all my dear friends." There is no need for her to name Aramis, for his will be a very different type of war and he will not return.
Athos bows and takes his leave then, vanishing into the night.
Later, much later, when the Dauphin has been handed over to his new governess and put to bed, when her ladies-in-waiting have finally left her for the night, and when the only illumination in her bedroom is from a single candle by her bed, she takes up the parchment. It almost glows in the warm, flickering candlelight. She strokes it as she might a baby's cheek but she does not open it. She isn't ready yet to know what secrets, what explanations, what promises or rejections lie within. She places it in a little hidden recess in the prie dieu by her bed and seals the compartment.
She lies in her lonely bed, staring into the darkness. It is hours before she sleeps.
After two weeks, it has become a ritual. Prayers finished for the night, she takes the unopened letter out of its hiding place and holds it close. Its red seal bears a bold and slightly embellished letter "A". How like Aramis, she smiles fondly. Sturdy as an oak but endearingly vain, he can scarcely pass a mirror without preening a bit. But there won't be any more of that, will there, she sighs - not after he renounces the world and takes vows of poverty, and obedience, and chastity. She holds the parchment to her heart and remembers his sweet, bold caresses, the gentle strength of him, the soaring release of being genuinely cherished for the woman she is rather than as the means to provide an heir. But that time has passed. She is again a captive of her position and her duty, and when the invisible bonds of truth close down about her, she puts the letter back into its hiding place for another day.
Only a few brown and withered leaves still cling to the branches outside her windows as Anne ponders the complexities of the man she cannot seem to stop loving. He's low-born, a common soldier. She'd reminded herself of that often in those pleasant early days when she'd halfheartedly tried to dissuade herself from engaging in her follies of flirtation and stolen glances. She remembers her delight in discovering that Aramis is so much more than a handsome Musketeer. He's a surprisingly well-educated man who recited sweet, silly verses in her ear as they lay together in euphoric languor after after making love in the convent at Bourbon-les-eaux. He knows Latin and Greek and he has medical experience that had impressed poor, dear Dr. Lemay when assassins had waylaid Captain Treville. She knows him for a good man, generous, and gentle, and kind; she has seen that for herself. But there is a darkness in him, too, and she has seen that, as well.
When enough time has passed that she can finally allow herself to think of it, she remembers the awful end of Rochefort time and time again. She feels him tighten the garrote about her throat, relives the certainty that she is only seconds from death, and feels the shock and wonder of Aramis bursting in to save her once again. But then she witnesses her tender, playful lover transform into some primal beast, battling to claim his mate from a deadly rival, murderous violence blazing in his eyes. His mate. Her. She realizes that as much as Rochefort had terrified her, Aramis had frightened her, too. Had he frightened himself as well? Had that been a part of what sent him fleeing to the monastery? Is that what is hidden within her sealed parchment? She shakes her head and puts that thought away with the others she cannot bear to examine too closely. Part of her longs to see what he has written to her; the rest dares not look.
Constance visits when she can; only she knows where Anne's thoughts and affections lie and only she can offer comfort. But Constance is, for all intents and purposes, running the Garrison now, and she cannot come often. When she does appear, her face is pinched with exhaustion and never-ending concern for her husband and friends. News from the front is rare and it is seldom good.
Autumn drifts into winter and the Dauphin takes his first clumsy steps as cold rains fall and harsh winds rattle the windows. The King bears witness and beams with delirious pride. Anne's heart swells with love for her son and relief that Louis cares so for the boy, but it swells also with sorrow that Aramis will never see his child laughing and clapping with such delight.
Winter snows transform the palace gardens and Anne still dreams of Aramis. One afternoon when Minister Treville stops to chat with her after a council meeting she asks him if he has any news of Athos and the others. He can tell her no more than that they are alive and still fighting in the north. She thanks him and starts to walk off but he stops her. He has seen the unaskable question in her eyes. "He is no longer a musketeer, Majesty," Treville says gently and so softly she can barely hear, though no one else is near. "I pray that he is well, but I have no way of knowing." She squeezes his hand and drifts away. Perhaps not knowing is better.
Christmas dawns bitterly cold and the city is buried in more snow than Anne has ever seen. She and the King attend Christmas mass, bundling the Dauphin in so many layers of blankets that he is difficult to carry, but they do it to encourage the already war-weary people of Paris. Notre Dame is freezing even with the crush of hundreds of bodies and Anne shivers as she silently prays that her son's father is warm and safe in his lonely monk's cell. She prays for Athos, and d'Artagnon, and Porthos too, for she knows they are neither warm nor safe. She prays for peace in her country, and in her household, and for peace in her heart and mind, but she fears that will never come.
Spring brings warmth, but little else that eases the Queen's lot. The war has all but emptied the treasury. Refugees from battle zones stream into Paris by the hundreds and then by thousands. Shanty towns and barricaded settlements crowd the already teeming slums and resentment and violence brew between the old poor and the new poor. Louis wants nothing to do with such woes and names his bastard half-brother, Phillipe Achille, Marquis de Feron, governor of Paris to handle them. Feron is often welcomed at the palace but Anne has little patience with him. He is much older than Louis and half-crippled with the horrible spinal degeneration that has plagued the Bourbons for generations. He is shifty and sneaky, and has the eyes of an owl, seeing every nuance and noting every word. He lurks and considers. Anne wonders what prey he is seeking and when he will pounce.
The seasons cycle. Days pass slowly, almost lazily. Anne begins to feel that she is withering away. Are those fine lines around her eyes she sees when she looks in the mirror? No matter, she sighs. Though currents and eddies may briefly alter its course, the river of time flows only one way and it is carrying the past away with it.
The Dauphin turns four and then five. Louis dotes on him more than ever before. Maybe it's relief that he has passed the most dangerous days of infancy and emerged glowing with health and mischief. But there is a strange new tinge of desperation in the depths of the King's eyes.
To Anne's horror, he gives the boy a tiny wooden sword and plays at teaching him to fence. "That's too dangerous!" she cries, but the king only laughs with glee. He rides through the grounds with the Dauphin balanced on the saddle in front of him and Anne can scarcely bear to watch as the child shrieks with delight, utterly without fear. Too much of your father in you, she sighs silently. Her eyes fill with tears when she realizes how long it has been since she last thought of Aramis. Perhaps he is truly leaving her at last. It's a sad thing, but there's a bittersweet taste of relief in it as well.
Easter comes again and for the first time the Royal family eschews its annual walk to Notre Dame to ride there in a closed carriage. Louis has been slow to throw off the catarrh that has plagued him since the beginning of the new year and is content to wave to the throngs of celebrants from his comfortable seat. When they disembark, the Dauphin, resplendent in his new velvet suit and a pair of high boots that echo the king's, dazzles the crowd with exuberant waves and blown kisses. Louis drinks in their adoration of his son as though it is the finest of wines. After the mass, though, Louis seems distant. On the ride back to the palace, Anne notices that he observes a line of tonsured monks in the crowd and just for a moment he smiles thinly, utterly without mirth. It's an odd gesture, Anne thinks, and subtly troubling.
Back at the palace, Louis congratulates the Dauphin on his triumphant appearance. He doesn't speak to his Queen for days.
Anne longs to see Constance, but though she's the uncrowned queen of the Garrison, Constance is worn to a frazzle. She runs the mess, procures the supplies, and herds the latest gaggle of cadets around like wayward geese. On her rare visits to the palace, she entertains with tales of their escapades, but she's frightened beneath the bravado. She has been married now for almost four years and has spent only two days of that time with her husband. She misses him desperately and fears for him every waking moment. She worries that she won't know him when he comes home; he has been away longer than she knew him before the wedding. Anne cannot bear to burden her friend with her own trifling concerns.
She has never been in love with her own husband, but at least they were friends once. Now he slights and avoids her at every turn. She lives an entirely separate life, seldom seeing him and almost never speaking with him. They appear together only in public and only when necessary.
She would know nothing of the affairs of state but for Minister Treville. She must not bother him with personal matters, she knows, but he is kind and attentive, and she considers him her friend. He has been a friend to Louis since the king's boyhood and now he has become her only window into her husband's life. But Treville is overwhelmed with trying to run the government with ever less help from the king and he has little time for her.
The Dauphin has been her whole world for years, but now Louis monopolizes the child's time. She is losing him too. Soon no one will see her, she silently laments, no one will talk to her. I am disappearing , she thinks. I am so alone. I'm like a ghost haunting the palace. Soon I will fade into the walls and I'll be gone, and no one will notice .
There are food riots in St. Antoine. A thousand bags of grain have gone missing. The king seems little concerned and does not discuss the matter with her. She hears him blame the common folk for their own hunger and it seems uncharacteristically cruel. But she cannot discuss it with him. At odd moments, she catches him studying her when he thinks she isn't looking. His expression is veiled and hostile.
One morning she tiptoes into the Dauphin's bedroom to wake him. Perhaps she can steal a bit of time alone with him before the King snatches him up for the day. But the King is already there. Of course. She should have known he'd want to be there when the boy woke.
"Come, give Papa a kiss," he prompts the sleepy child.
"Good morning, Papa," the boy says and kisses the king affectionately, but he teases the Queen and pulls away when she tries to kiss him good morning. She can almost feel her husband's thin, taunting smile through the back of his head.
"Ohhh, doesn't my little prince want his mama this morning? Poor Mama."
There is no playfulness in his teasing. He doesn't turn to face her when he says, "I did not tell you, the Musketeers have returned to Paris. All four of them. It seems the life of a celibate monk didn't suit Aramis." There's a wink in his voice when he turns to the Dauphin and whispers loudly, "I'm sure we all could've told him that." The Dauphin nods dutifully.
"Don't you think, my dear?" And still he does not look at her.
All the air has been sucked out of the room. Her ears ring and she cannot breathe. He must not turn around. If he sees her face, it will crack and fly apart like a shattering porcelain doll. But his full attention is on the Dauphin and though he does not turn, she knows that her husband wears a victorious grin as she slips from the room.
Four years blow away like eiderdown scattering in the wind. She holds herself erect and walks stiffly to her chambers, no matter how she wants to run. Why are there so many people in the corridors? She knows that if they listen carefully they will hear her heart pounding. One of her maids is straightening the room, but she dips a curtsy and flees at the sight of the Queen. What must I look like? she wonders, to have frightened the girl like that.
Her corset is too tight. It's so hard to breathe. Aramis is back. Aramis is in Paris. She longs to see him but she knows where it will lead, where it has always led from the very beginning. All of her sheltering he's gone forevers are whisked away and there is nowhere left to hide. Her hands and legs are shaking as she staggers to her bed, and she trips on her skirt. She falls to her knees and crawls to the prie dieu, dress be damned.
She sobs until her chest feels ready to split. This cannot happen again. It can not. I cannot bear the seeing and the longing and the getting and the having and the godforsaken losing of him again, she screams silently. Never again. Never.
She rests her head on the silky wood before the cross on her prie dieu. Oh, dear Father, forgive me, for I have sinned and I will sin again if given the chance, but please keep me from harming him.
Her knees have gone sore when she finally raises her head. Golden late afternoon sun pours into the room and shadows from the western window grids form a cross over her prie dieu, the beams meeting over the hidden compartment. Anne has never been superstitious, but she is not immune to suggestion. Now? She takes the letter from the space that has been its home for four years. She brushes off the thin coating of dust onto her dress; certainly no one will notice a little more dirt now that she's crawled across the floor in it.
The wax seal has grown brittle over the years and it splits easily.
There are only a few lines in Aramis's clear handwriting and she realizes as she reads that there has never been anything to fear in his words.
Forgive me if you can, Querida. This is the only way I can protect you now.
If prayers can bring you and Louis-Dieudonné safety and happiness then you
will be forever well, and if you are well then my purpose is fulfilled.
I sought to take what was never mine and the penalty is just. Please hold my
heart in your safekeeping til I am wise enough to use it well.
Will either of us ever be so wise? Anne wonders, but she realizes that she is beginning to feel more serene than she has in years.
Why was I so afraid? Was that my penance? God had not needed to punish her for her sins. She has punished herself and for long enough.
She tucks the letter into her bodice. I will hold your heart next to mine even if we never become wise. A queen is allowed her secrets.
Anne washes her face, straightens her mussed hair, and smooths her gown. She must look like a queen when she leaves the room.
She sees the returned Musketeers occasionally, but only three of them – Athos, Porthos, and d'Artagnan - and only at a distance. They are no longer assigned to the palace. Athos is captain now and by his posture, he wears the rank a bit uneasily. He reports to Minister Treville, but she is never in the right place at the right time speak to him. She is the Queen and she could, of course, summon him, but she will do nothing to tip her delicate balance. Louis and Feron circle her like carrion birds waiting for their prey to die. She will not feed them.
And now Gaston has arrived, the king's own brother, long since exiled for treason. Louis greets him like the biblical Prodigal, showering him with forgiveness. She finds him repulsive, like a spotted toad, pale and loathsome, crawling out from under its rock. His exaggerated courtliness disgusts her and his obvious disdain for her is almost welcome. At least he will not willingly approach her.
The palace has always been a boiling cauldron of gossip. She soon learns, without asking, that Gaston may well have murdered three war veterans in a tavern in St. Antoine upon his arrival in Paris, claiming he'd been robbed. "More like he just felt like killin' someone," a scullery maid scrubbing the corridor comments to the girl beside her. "Like as not plottin' against our king again, that one is," her companion remarks.
"Musketeers was at the funeral," she hears one gardener saying to another as she watches her son play on the lawn with his attendants. "One of 'em even spoke till the fookin' red guards tried to arrest everyone. Killed a man. Minister Treville faced 'em down, though. 'Tis a blessin' he's Minister instead of some damn noble. At least we got someone."
She spots Feron and Gaston watching her son ride his hobby horse into battle with his governess. A shiver traces up along her spine. Do not lay your filthy eyes on him, Gaston.
"Why is my son out here with you?" she asks lightly, as though it is of no great concern.
Feron clears his throat. He and Gaston exchange glances and bow low. Has she interrupted a guilty conversation? "Majesty, the King is asleep," Feron explains, "But he wanted the Dauphin and his two uncles to become the best of friends."
"And how can you be friends when you are here and he is over there?" Carefully, carefully…
"Who are you to question us?" Gaston's voice is slippery and he doesn't bother to conceal his impudence.
Feron covers the insult with a subtle rebuke. "She is our Queen, Gaston."
Her fingers twitch as she imagines claws sheathed in satin. "And you would do well to remember that you have only just returned from exile," she reminds him.
"While you have gone into a kind of exile…" Contempt curls his lip when he adds, "Majesty." A little wave of triumph washes across his features. "It seems as if the King cares for nothing but his son."
Anne studies their faces carefully for a long moment before she says, "My husband and son share many of the same enthusiasms." I am the very soul of diplomacy. "But when he is grown, he may not love the same people as his father."
She considers another attack for a short moment but something across the lawn catches her attention. No, not something, someone. Someone she knows. Someone watching her son with rapt attention; someone she has both longed and dreaded to see for four long years. Aramis.
Without a word, she turns away from Gaston and Feron and sets off on a path that will intersect Aramis at an oblique angle. He is so intent on the Dauphin that he will never see her coming.
I am not ready for this. Not ready. But she keeps moving. Dear God, I am a moth drawn to the flame even while it falls singed and dying into the fire. Be careful, little moth, she tells herself. Be careful.
There are eyes everywhere, and with those eyes are greedy ears. Feron, Gaston, the Dauphin's governess and maids, gardeners - any one of them could turn and see her studying this misplaced Musketeer like some rare and bewitching creature.
The years have not been kind to him. There is more gray in his beard and there are scattered threads of silver in his hair. New lines crinkle in the corners of his eyes and mouth. The sparkle of joy that once lit those beloved eyes has been muted somehow and she knows that the old swagger will be gone from his walk. But as he gazes at his son, she sees the wonder and love that have lured him away from whatever duty brought him to the palace, and her heart soars. The Aramis of old still lives in this altered form even as Anne-That-Was still lives in her.
He sees her then and she prays that her eyes can send her message. I cannot speak to you here, no matter my wishes. There are too many eyes, too many ears. He bows more deeply that he ever has to her, eyes respectfully lowered.
"When I returned to Paris it felt like four years had passed in a moment," he says softly and turns back toward the Dauphin. "Now it feels like forever."
It has been forever, she thinks but she can say nothing at all.
The ache of lost years roughens his voice. "He's big… he's grown so tall…"
I will not cry. They will see… And I have cried enough.
"Why are you here?" she asks, and there is a sharpness in her tone she had not planned. It horrifies her.
He recovers so quickly that she might almost have imagined the shadow that crossed his features. "To stand witness against the Duke of Orleans."
"Then do so," she commands as she sees Athos, Porthos, and d'Artagnon watching them at the corner of the path. Aramis sees them as well.
His bow this time is much more like in days past, just barely low enough for propriety, and his eyes meet hers the entire time. She watches him join the others and turns back towards the palace. Now it is my turn to keep you safe.
Please don't let them be looking at me, she prays, but no one is watching. Feron and Gaston have disappeared. The Dauphin's governess has picked up his toys and is escorting him off for his afternoon nap. The Musketeers are gone.
Her chief lady-in-waiting follows her to her bedroom door and asks if she needs anything. She's a sweet girl and Anne does not want to be rude to her so she smiles and shakes her head. "No, but I am very tired. Please see that I am not disturbed."
In all the hundreds of times she has imagined a reunion with Aramis, not one of her fantasies has ever resembled the awful charade in the garden. What must he think of me? She sighs. I treated him like some half-visible servant, one that I would brush by in the hall while he lights the candles or sweeps the floor. And he has left his heart in her safekeeping.
Then I must let him know I am doing the best I can.
She sits at her writing desk, takes up her quill, and easily remembers the veiled language of their old notes from years ago.
That which you so kindly left in my care seemed to trouble you this afternoon.
Please know it is cherished every day, even when it cannot be allowed to seem so.
One must exercise great caution with such a treasure lest it be coveted by those
who must not come near it. We are not yet wise enough.
She summons one of the newer pages, a boy who has been at the Louvre for only a month or two. "Deliver this to Madame d'Artagnan at the Garrison," she instructs him. "Tell her it is for our friend from the convent. You do not need to wait for a reply."
He bows deeply and scurries off, suspecting nothing.
Anne smiles to herself. Though she knows that great dangers and unimaginable challenges still lie ahead, she is no longer afraid. She is no longer alone.