In her Service:

All belongs to the BBC. Any feedback, good, bad or indifferent happily received.

Despite her exhaustion, sleep was impossible. Memories of the last few days prevented any hope of rest. Constance found herself tripping again and again over the same frightening thoughts - that long night in the camp, the terror of her dreams, the threat to the Queen and the slow, painful cleansing of Emilie's tormented brain in the darkest of palace dungeons. Three nights since the Queen's safe return to Paris and still, Constance could not sleep.

Surrendering to the restlessness, Constance rose. She dressed quickly, wrapping her warmest robe around her before slipping from her small bedchamber. Across the hallway, outside the Queen's apartment, two young sentries stirred at the sight of her. Rising, they eyed her in askance.

"I cannot sleep," She settled for the simplest explanation. "Is the Queen well?"

"Mademoiselle de Chalon is with her," the guard nodded toward the door, "She reports the Queen sleeps peacefully."

Constance was glad to hear it. The young queen had been under considerable strain for weeks. Queen Anne had mulled over every possible outcome of Emilie's populist rising and felt certain it could only end in bloodshed. Being who she was, the queen was moved to act. Her ordeal was considerable and hidden, for the King would insist on Emilie's head were he to learn of her threat to hang the queen. Constance was warmed to know that the monarch, at least, could find comfort in sleep.

She glanced away, "I'm going to take a short walk."

"Madame," the younger sentry stirred uneasily. "It is just after midnight. I could summon a guard to escort you."

"I appreciate your concern," Constance reached for the small lantern by her door, "All I require however is some night air and solitude gentlemen, the fresh chill will quickly aid my sleep. Besides," she smiled brightly, her tone brooking no dissent. "I shan't be long." Constance moved away, unwilling to chatter. She needed to be alone.

The palace gardens were beautifully silent. Constance walked through them, slipping her soft shoes off, enjoying the dewy grass tickling her feet beneath. She rested when she reached the Queen's small garden. Pulling her robe closer, Constance sank to the grass, tilted back against a small marble bench for support and closed her eyes, trying to ignore the panic that rippled through her. Out here, in the silence of the night, she had vaguely hoped for tranquillity. Instead, her body felt like an enemy, her breathing fast and shallow, redness invading her senses, dreams of blood, Emilie's cries mingling with the memories of her own. Constance covered her hands with her face and willed herself to calm.

The cold lured her into nightmares. Murky, dark images taunted her, shadows and grey apparitions swirled around her prone form, mocking, warning, and promising. There were other noises now, not noises, voices...

They intruded her consciousness and she woke, disorientation hitting. Constance stirred from her position. Lying on the ground, her hair was damp now, her hands clutching grass. Constance rose jerkily, glancing around to recall her surroundings, the garden, the bench behind which supported her now as she sat upon it and smoothed her hair from her face. The voices came closer. She frowned in tired thought, she heard her name called, knew those voices, one in particular. Constance raised her eyes in confusion, "D'Artagnan?"

There was a rustling nearby, grass muffled footsteps and then D'Artagnan himself emerged from the hedgerow, concern etched on his face. He advanced on her quickly, his hands reaching for her. "Constance," the musketeer kneeled, scanning her for any sign, she guessed, or harm or misfortune. "You're alright?" He waited for her slow nod, and then called out into the darkness, "I have her."

The others materialised from the night, their features lit by lanterns. Aramis found them first. He strode purposefully toward them, drawing to a sharp halt as he surveyed the dishevelled woman. Porthos was a step behind. He arrived in characteristic fashion, silent, alert and utterly intent. His glance darted around the small clearing, at his two fellow musketeers and then slowed to rest speculatively on Constance herself.

Finally, Athos. The musketeer appeared from the blackness, each movement fluid and measured, his face guarded. He raised his lantern, surveyed Constance carefully and nodded at D'Artagnan.

"She is well?" Athos asked with a calm Constance envied. In this moment, she felt anything but calm. She was muddled and cold, so very cold. Aramis was behind her now. He moved briskly, tugging her wet robe from her, replacing it with the welcome warmth of his thick coat.

"I think so," D'Artagnan said, his eyes not leaving her.

Constance found her voice. "She is fine," she said, shrugging free from D'Artagnan's light grasp. His touch, above all others, unsettled her in endless ways. She waited until D'Artagnan eased back and rose reluctantly to his feet. Constance pulled her eyes away from him and shot a look around the clearing. "What are you all doing here?"

"One might ask you the same question," Aramis said, rounding on her. He sat beside her and eyed her searchingly. "Where have you been? Half of the palace is looking for you."

"Looking for me?" Constance struggled to understand, "I took a short walk…"

Across the garden, Porthos snorted, clearly unimpressed with that response. "A short walk? Its 4am you've been missing half the night. The palace authorities tend to panic when one of the Queen's companions disappears out of sight. We," he nodded at his fellow musketeers, "are just one search party."

Constance stared at him uncomprehendingly. She shook her head slightly, her eyes slipping instinctively to D'Artagnan. "That cannot be."

"The Queen's sentries were concerned when you didn't return," he said gently, "We've been looking for you."

"Where were you?" Athos asked abruptly.

Constance turned to him. "Here," she said stiltedly, "I came out for some air, I must have" she felt foolishness engulf her, "fallen asleep."

Athos complete attention was focused on her now, "No harm came to you?"

Constance shook her head, "No, I'm fine. I feel silly. It has been…" She glanced at Aramis, "An unsettling few days." Emotions flitted across Aramis's face. Empathy, kindness, sorrow? Fleeting hints of the heart beneath the armour, Constance knew and for a breath, she ached for the burdens the musketeer carried. The moment passed and Aramis reached for her hand, squeezing it gently. "All is well," he said warmly, "All that matters is that you are safe and unharmed."

Constance nodded. She rose to her feet and watched as the musketeers watched her carefully. "Relax," she said, in half irritation. "I'm fine."

They looked entirely unconvinced.

"I am," she insisted.

"I'd believe you," Porthos said gruffly, "If we hadn't just found you sleeping in a palace garden in the middle of the night. I think I'd feel better if you were at least drunk."

Constance began to object, falling silent as she recognised worry settling in D'Artagnan's gaze, discomfort in Aramis's forced smile. Their concern was apparent. She glanced past them to Athos. He stood a little apart, a hand resting on his belt and was, she knew from experience, absorbing every detail, every movement and glance. There was no hiding from his scrutiny. There was no kindness there, no warmth, no concern, his gaze was demanding, unrelenting. A companion of the Queen must have a better explanation for such behaviour. The musketeer wanted to know what it was.

Constance shrugged in surrender. "I haven't slept since we left Emilie's camp. At all."

There was an instant shift in atmosphere. Tension eased from the men, as they glanced from one to another. Happy now that no physical harm had come to her, that no malevolent intruder required their particular brand of intervention, the musketeers relaxed and mulled over this revelation.

"I'm not some sort of hysterical woman," Constance said hotly, ignoring the slightly bemused expression settling on Portho's face. She eyed him warningly, "I'm not."

Porthos raised gloved hands placating, "I wouldn't dream of suggesting such a thing."

Athos glanced at Aramis, an eyebrow raised in question. Aramis shrugged in agreement. "Good point," he grimaced "I should have guessed this might happen."

Irritation growing, Constance looked from one to the other, "What might happen?"

"The soup," Athos said evenly.

Constance caught their meaning. "I had one bowl of broth." she began.

"You drank from the same bowl as Emilie," Athos said, "You experienced her dreams. Perhaps we should have prepared you for some residual effects."

"Effects?"

"Yes," Atho's countenance changed, a slight softening as his eyes dragged slowly over her taut face, "Sleep disturbance, exhaustion, unease, nightmares." He watched her flinch at the mention of the dark dreams. His voice gentled with reassurance "It will be pass."

Vague relief nipped at her thoughts. This was an explanation, a logical reasoning of the distress that had tugged at her over the last few days. Constance considered it, her stomach lurching as she worked Atho's theory through to a natural conclusion.

"You think I'm going mad?" Constance said, bluntly. "Emilie mad?"

Athos smiled. "You did just have one bowl and I see no evidence of an army rising around you."

"Unless an army of midgets count," Porthos said from behind, swiping at some night insect.

"You are more likely to rest in the palace," Athos said, waving the lantern toward the path, "Shall we?"

Constance nodded in slow agreement, tension easing for the first time in days, as sinking into the warmth of her new coat, she followed Athos, the others pacing behind. Athos was right, a few days and she would be back to herself. All would be well, unless...

She paused at a particularly dark thought, wincing as the wall of armour that was Porthos walked into her from behind.

"Constance..."

She rounded on them suspiciously. "Hang on a minute," Constance tugged the lantern from a still confused Porthos. He yielded it to her and Constance lifted it up, watching as the light flickered against four attentive faces. "He," she jerked the lantern sharply at Aramis, "is a master of deception in this type of business, how do I know you four aren't planning to lure me into a dungeon and well," she frowned, struggling for the right word, "de-soup me?"

There was momentary silence. Porthos broke it, with an amused laugh. "De-soup you? Is that the technical term?"

"Yes," Constance said fiercely, suddenly aware that she was boxed in by a tall Musketeer on every side, "Just so we are all clear, I'm not going anywhere near a dungeon. Understood?"

The four men exchanged amused glances.

"Trust me, Madame Bonacieux, had we been charged to escort you to a dungeon tonight," Aramis said in feigned gravity, "we would have brought the whole garrison with us." Mirth lightened his expression "That might have given us some hope of success in containing you."

Constance heard the affection in his mocking tone, but she was tired, snappy and if she thought about long enough, more than a little embarrassed to be found sleeping in a garden. "Once that's clear," she said sharply, flinging the lantern back to Porthos and marching on with grim intent. She ignored Porto's muttered comment that nobody need worry, it seemed perfectly clear to him that Madame Bonacieux would make a complete recovery.

"Aramis," Constance began to wriggle free from the rumpled leather warmth "your coat."

The musketeer bowed gallantly, returning her own damp robe. "Keep it, Madame. I shall retrieve it in the morning."

D'Artagnan was beside her, impossibly close. "I'll walk you to your quarters," he murmured.

"No," Constance said, a sharpness in her tone. She saw the instant flash of hurt in him and she tried again, her voice gentled, "It wouldn't be wise, D'Artagnan."

A thousand explanations.

I have so little strength around you, your touch feels fundamental, vital, as essential as breathing. I could not judge the Queen or Aramis, I understand all too well the pull of a person, the draw of you. We cannot be alone.

Words would never sum up her feeling for this man. Nothing could explain the utter unalterable truth of her heart. Distance was the only protection for them.

"Don't," Constance said, as D'Artagnan's expression darkened, old arguments she knew, on his lips. "Please, just don't." She rested a hand against his doublet, "I'm fine now."

Beside them, Athos shifted. "I'll accompany you," he said with quiet authority. He shook his head at her murmured protest and too tired to argue with all of them, Constance nodded in weary agreement. Athos glanced at the youngest musketeer, "Let the palace captain know Constance is safe." There was a pause, then movement. Aramis tipped his hat in farewell; Porthos slapped D'Artagnan lightly on the shoulder, stirring him.

"I'm glad you are well, Constance," Porthos said, shoving D'Artagnan on.

"As am I," D'Artagnan said, his brown eyes deepening with thought. He nodded briefly, bowed gently and took his departure, leaving Constance in the sole company of Athos. Athos proffered an arm and weariness sinking into her bones, Constance accepted it gratefully.

"I should apologise," Athos said, as they walked up the long corridor which led to the Queen's apartments. "I thought little of asking you to care for Emilie; you had been through an ordeal yourself. I should not have insisted upon your help."

"I was happy to help;" Constance said quietly, "Emilie needed help. She just didn't know it at the time."

"An affliction which you too have suffered from in recent days," Athos said, a hint of grim in his voice.

Constance inwardly winced. She had known, once the fuss died down, that the musketeers would make their opinion of her visit to Emilie's camp with the Queen known. She paused and rounded on him, lifting her eyes to his.

"You're angry with me."

"I was."

"On what grounds?"

Athos nodded thoughtfully and stepped closer, overwhelmingly close. "You allowed the Queen to walk both of you toward an almost certain death, Constance. You alerted no one to her plan. That angers me."

Heat warmed her face. "You think I should have told you."

"It was your duty to do so." Atho's gaze was merciless, his voice clipped and certain. "If it weren't for the influence of Aramis, you would both be dead. Do you consider that serving your Queen?"

"Don't try to browbeat me, Athos." Constance pushed him, watching as he stepped back. "Don't you think I tried to talk her out of it? Don't you think I wanted to tell you or the others? I am her confidante." Constance released a frustrated breath and much to her annoyance, she felt angry tears spring to her eyes. "Every other day, some politician or man in power tries to convince me to share the Queen's secrets and confidences. Well, I won't do it. Even if it does mean I walk with her like a pair of blithering idiots into a camp of crazy fanatics, I cannot break her confidence," Defiance lit on her face, "I gave her my word."

Athos stared down at her, a hint of amusement in his eyes. He shook his head slightly and looked away. "Constance, you are inexperienced in court life," Athos raised a hand, silencing her indignant protest. "The King and Queen are entitled to our loyalty and our protection." He frowned and returned his attention to her, "You cannot warn Queen Anne about that which she does not comprehend. She leads a cossetted life and while she has the skills of an intelligent, bright politician, she needs more than your confidence, she requires your wisdom."

"You do not defy the King's orders," Constance said pointedly, sweeping past him. "I'm simply doing the same for the Queen."

Athos grinned at her spirit and made to follow. "Perhaps, but when I follow the King into a camp of crazed fanatics, I generally have a choice of weaponry and half a garrison to protect us." He jogged to catch up with her, "I admire your loyalty but ask you to consider how your blind service protects the Queen? Could she have found her way to that camp alone? Could she have hidden her absence for so long without your assistance? You led as well as followed, Constance."

A few steps ahead, Constance paused and rounded on him. Athos recognised that twist of guilt and regret on her face, he had felt it a thousand times himself as he questioned a decision. "I say this not to trouble you," Athos continued, "But to remind you that our service must be based on wisdom." He indicated toward the Queen's corridor. "I have said enough but know this," Promise warmed his tone "Should you require help at any time, we are close to hand and will always protect the Queen and her companions. You have my word as a musketeer. "

Constance contemplated the soldier in front of her. Athos was an enigma in so many ways. Battle hardened, war weary, heart hidden, she had watched countless times as he intimidated others with a look, a word, with his very presence. The same scarred hand which rested on his sword now, had tended to Emilie with the gentle care of a nurse, had held the tormented girl tenderly as she bucked against him. Constance respected him and not for the first time this week, was suddenly very grateful for him.

She smiled in brief acknowledgement. "I am new to this, Athos."

Athos was beside her in a heartbeat, his hand reaching for her own. "I am not." Athos kissed her hand gently, "Consider me in your service Madame Bonacieux, and call on me when you need me." He half bowed, rounded and paced away, her eyes caught momentarily by his proud posture, his firm gait.

Constance stirred. Heading for her chamber, she paused to reassure the relieved sentries of her health and then slipped inside. Her small room felt comforting, safe. Wearily, she undressed quickly, carefully resting Aramis's leather coat over the chair. Relaxing into bed, Constance found herself resting, her breathing eased, her mind relaxed. She mulled over Atho's words, knew that in the kindest way, he was telling her she was out of her depth. It might have troubled her more, had the same thoughts not plagued her for much of the week, his perception aligning with her own, yet, she had no fear. There was a comfort in the knowledge that she was never alone in her duty, that whether she chose to draw upon them, she had the unwavering service of four of the King's finest men.

End of Chapter One.