Mercifully, the innkeeper did not return and instead it was a young girl who arrived with their food. It was unexpectedly good and Constance thought, biting into it, very welcome after a long day on horseback. She ate in tired silence, enjoying the tales of battles and life on the road tossed about between the men.

"Speaking of swordfights," Athos looked across the booth, his interested gaze settling on her, "I am reliably informed that you are an able swordswoman."

Constance lowered her spoon and smiled at Aramis, "Your source is too kind."

"Hardly," Aramis took a swig of wine and eased back against the wall, before tilting to eye her lazily. "I would have preferred if you had allowed me use my own sword but you were efficient with it." Aramis demonstrated the fight for the others, replaying the events with a surprisingly accurate play of his fingers. "Thirteen strokes I counted before her opponent surrendered" Aramis shook his head and impressed at just the memory, nodded at Constance with cheerful admiration.

His tale ensured she had the complete attention of Athos and Porthos, D'Artagnan remaining suspiciously quiet beside her.

Athos was characteristically blunt. "When did you start teaching her?"

"I didn't…" Aramis began to protest, then sensing the object of Athos's question, craned forward to stare down the booth, "Aha," he said, understanding dawning, "our valiant D'Artagnan."

Porthos snorted. "You should have come to me, Constance," he said, grinning at the increasingly uncomfortable looking D'Artagnan, "I would have taught you to fell a man in ten strokes."

Constance was watching Athos. "I insisted he teach me."

Athos shot her a cursory glance, "No doubt you are a formidable woman to refuse, Madame Bonacieux," his attention drifted back to D'Artagnan "but we generally expect potential musketeers to resist such entreaties." Athos allowed the younger man sit in momentary discomfort, "I presume you didn't encourage her to fight yesterday?"

"Hardly," D'Artagnan said, as though insulted by the very idea, "It was just a few pointers."

"It was more than that," Constance and Aramis said in unison. Aramis tipped his hat in apology to Constance and continued. "She reached for my sword and used it with confidence." The musketeer shrugged slightly, suddenly grave, "It might have been dangerous."

"Hold on," Constance wriggled between them, creating enough space so that she could glare at them equally. "It was dangerous. It's always dangerous, that's why I asked D'Artagnan to teach me."

D'Artagnan stiffened at that. He shifted himself so that he faced Constance, a hint of accusation in his eyes, "You asked me to teach you as you thought it would be fun. I wasn't intending you to ever actually use the techniques."

"Well, I think baby Henri will grow up to be glad that I did," Constance said icily, glancing at Aramis for support.

Aramis shook his head slightly, "I'm sorry Constance. I cannot support you taking an action that, however well intended, might have seen you and that child killed."

"Aramis is right,"

"Aramis is wrong," Constance interrupted Athos, determined to control the quiver in her voice. She shook her head slightly as though in resolve and continued, her eyes bright with meaning, "You think I don't think about these things when people pound on my door at night or when I'm attacked in a room as we were?" She glanced at Aramis, the only witness, "I knew my only hope was to use the element of surprise against that man. He didn't expect me to have any sword skills. The only reason I bested him is because he was treating me like a foolish woman." Constance breathed in exasperation "Much as you lot are now. Don't you see?" She glanced around them questioningly, "If Aramis had taken that sword and had been defeated, I would have lost my nerve, the fight and that baby. Me fighting him first was the only way I would have been useful in that room, it was my best option."

"There was a reflective silence around the table. Porthos broke it. "That," he said, with a hint of kindness in his teasing tone, "is what they call tactical thinking."

"Contemplating that I could be defeated," Aramis said, inching toward her as though sharing a confidence, "is called a tactical error," he grinned cockily, "often a fatal error."

Constance felt the fire fade and tiredness return in a sudden, overwhelming wave. "You don't have to be afraid of people knocking on your door at night." She dropped back, deflated, not caring how they saw her, "None of you understand, with your swords and muskets and strength. In a situation like yesterday, I need to know how to fight more than any of you."

D'Artagnan's hand was on her arm, reassuring, comforting. "We're always close."

"Who knocks on your door?" Athos asked evenly.

Constance's eyes flew to his. She felt guilty and cursing herself, was sure she looked guilty. "It was an expression."

Athos eyed her in thoughtful silence, "You've just used it twice. It sounded more like an experience to me."

D'Artagnan stared at Athos before bestowing his concerned attention on Constance, "Who are we talking about? Marsac?"

Aramis flinched at that. "Marsac," Worried eyes settled on Constance. "He hurt you?"

"No," Constance said.

"He tried," D'Artagnan finished, ignoring her angry expression. "I stopped him."

Aramis reacted exactly as Constance had feared he would, in a rush of regret, apologies and cursed disgust at a dead friend. Constance hadn't intended to hide Marsac's true nature from Aramis, she had fully planned to expose Marsac as the wretched coward he was, but something in Aramis's expression after the burial, the grief lurking behind his gaze, the effort in his smile, made her hesitate.

Say nothing, D'Artagnan. Further damning Marsac is pointless now he is dead. It will only hurt your friend.

"It was brief," Constance said firmly now, grasping Aramis's arm. "I came to no harm, D'Artagnan saw to that."

Athos drew her attention back. "If not Marsac, there have been other unwelcome visitors?" Athos said, as though it was a statement, rather a question. Constance might have been fascinated by him had it not been herself that was under his scrutiny. His gaze was even, but unrelenting, command edging his tone. Constance had heard D'Artagnan say that Athos could extract information from the most reluctant of people and she felt a sudden pang of sympathy to those subjected to his interrogations.

"Athos," she shook her head, glancing around the booth for refuge. She found none. Aramis had turned so that his arm rested on the table. His jaw was set, his expression grim. Clearly, Aramis was directing the anger caused by the revelations of Marsac's behaviour about which he could do nothing, toward these new and unknown adversaries, about whom he might be able to do something.

Quiet fury filled D'Artagnan's voice, "Who are they? Enemies of Monsieur Bonacieux?"

"Yes," Constance said dryly, "Other cloth merchants call around and threaten me all the time."

D'Artagnan frowned. "If not enemies of his…"

"Enemies of ours," Athos said, with absolute conviction. He watched Constance flinch, then fade under his scrutiny. The booth tensed.

"Who?" Porthos asked grimly.

"It doesn't matter," Constance said, despair burdening her frame. She ran her hands over her face, temporarily shielding herself from their barrage, "Can I just slip out and go to bed?"

"No," Aramis told her firmly.

Constance released an exasperated breath and was about to launch into a protest when Athos interrupted. "We're very persistent Madame Bonacieux. You might as well tell us now."

Porthos fixed a dark stare on her. "Very persistent," he echoed.

"Alright," Constance said, carefully choosing her words, "What if I told you that occasionally, from time to time, certain people with a grudge to settle with some of you might visit and enquire as to your whereabouts?"

"What grudge?"

"How do they enquire?"

"Who are they?"

"Occasionally?" That was D'Artagnan, "This has happened more than once?"

"Maybe twice," Constance lied, "There isn't much to tell. I clarified that I am not the musketeers' babysitter and they left." She shrugged slightly. "It wasn't worth mentioning."

Athos raised an unconvinced eyebrow, "Yet these visits which aren't worth mentioning provoked your interest in learning to fight?"

Constance remained silent.

"Constance," Athos leaned forward, "With all of the assistance you have given us, you are as entitled to our protection as any other. Please, allow us fulfil our duty to you," he said quietly, "Give me the names."

She lifted troubled eyes to him, "There will just be more trouble."

"There is always trouble," Aramis said, folding his gloved hands, thumbs tapping against each other. He glanced sideways, his gaze meaningful, "Ours should never come to your door."

Porthos nodded in tense agreement. "Give us those names and they never will again." He frowned slightly, "I may have made that sound optional but it isn't. It's talking time Constance.

The game was up. Constance knew it, saw their determination and to her surprise, relief settled in her stomach at the sight of it. There had been frightening moments in the last month, when Bonacieux was away and D'Artagnan slept at the garrison or patrolled with his new self- appointed brother. Moments when she feared that the door might breach at the hinges, that the vile threats would be acted on, that their boisterous intimidation might escalate. Constance shuddered slightly at the thought.

"Cloutier, Bigaud and Grenier."

Athos's eyes narrowed. "The red guards?"

Constance nodded.

Porthos thumped the table, breathing in angrily. "Those cowards."

"What have they done?" Athos went straight to the point, though the grim fury in his voice was audible to all.

Constance found a nervous smile. "Nothing so awful, honestly," she sent a desperate stare around the tense booth, "Nothing worth getting killed over." She eyed Athos pleadingly. "Especially not worth killing over."

Except maybe Bigaud. Those vile threats…

"I was foolish enough to open the door to them once." She glanced at D'Artagnan, regretting that her words would pain him, "they were looking for you when you were missing with Vadim. They were," she bit her lip, "persistent."

"Did they hurt you?" D'Artagnan said, his voice clipped.

"They threatened things, broke things, pushed me a little. They have come back occasionally, though never over the threshold." Constance rushed on, "Mostly drunk, they bang on the door, they brush against me in the market, they ask about you all."

"They will be dealt with," Athos said, shooting a quick look around his grim faced fellow soldiers, "They won't trouble you again, Madame Bonacieux."

Constance suddenly felt slightly concerned for the well-being of the red guards and the consequences of their deaths at the hands of the King's musketeers. "Athos, you cannot kill them."

"We can," Porthos said hotly.

"We won't" Athos assured her, understanding her concerns, "But we will remind them that we can and will should they cross your path again." He frowned slightly. "Do we know all your secrets? Nobody else has troubled you on our account?"

"Not unless you count Monsieur Blanchet," Constance said, happy to change the subject, "He was anxious to know if the musketeer Aramis who had courted his daughter was known to me."

Aramis looked at her in mild alarm, "What did you tell him?"

"That you had been sent off for border duty," Constance nudged him playfully, "That he shouldn't expect your return for a good three years."

Aramis grinned at her. "Madame, I am truly in your debt."

Constance sensed the silence beside her. "I should have told you," she told D'Artagnan. "I just hoped they would disappear of their own accord."

Faint disappointment sat in his gaze. "I can only live in that house if you trust me to tell me these things."

Fear tingled in her. The idea that D'Artagnan might leave terrified her, more than she cared to admit. He had somehow entangled himself in her life and in her heart and his presence was vital to her.

"I will," she said, more fervently than she intended, "I promise."

Something like hope crossed his face. Constance smiled at him.

"Seeing as the interrogation is over," Constance looked pointedly at Aramis, "can I now be excused to sleep?" She received a more gallant response on this occasion; Aramis slid to his feet and waved her out. He glanced around the inn. "You'll need to share a room with your brother."

Constance looked at him in confusion. "Excuse me?"

"Forgive me," Aramis rested a hand on his chest, "This isn't the kind of place I would rest knowing a woman slept alone."

Porthos snorted, "He says that to all the girls." He was rewarded with a kick from D'Artagnan who then got to his feet. "Aramis is right, Constance." D'Artagnan shifted uncomfortably, "It's a large room, there's a screen, you'll have your privacy."

"More importantly, you'll be safe. Besides, nobody will judge you," Athos gave a half smile, "Now you've informed the innkeeper of your familial link."

Constance considered her options. It was hardly inviting to sleep alone in this establishment, she thought with a quick glance, even if she borrowed a gun and sword and she and D'Artagnan regularly slept alone under the same roof.

"A screen, you say?" She looked at D'Artagnan, a thrill prickling up her spine.

He nodded.

"Well, if it's you or them," Constance said softly, "I pick you."

Athos and Porthos rose to their feet, stepped out of the booth and bowed politely as she bid them goodnight.

"Take care of Madame Bonacieux," Athos said, in clear earshot of those close, "She's under our protection."

Constance smiled at him, appreciating his intent. Turning, she headed for her room, D'Artagnan at her side, leaving his friends to plan a conversation with some red guards.

THE END