Archive of Our Own ^beta

Aramis was reaching to open the carriage door for the queen when the shot rang out. It struck the carriage door, the wood splintering a foot from where his hand rested on the door handle, and Aramis didn’t even flinch.

He heard Anne gasp as he pushed her behind him, herding her behind the carriage to provide some cover as he scanned the area to identify where the shot had come from.

It had been a while since anyone had been so bold as to strike at the royal family, and even though they were outside the palace, Aramis hadn’t seen it coming. That was his mistake. Still, at least Louis was safely ensconced in the palace, protected by d’Artagnan and a complement of musketeers.

Two more shots rang out and one of the royal guards was hit. Shouts went up all around them, as scattering Parisians dove towards doors and hid under archways, trying to get out of the street or at least under some semblance of cover. Here on the outskirts of Paris, it was typically fairly quiet, and Aramis felt a little bad for ruining everyone’s day with the unnecessary noise and violence. Not that he’d planned this, of course, but it was always a possibility when the Queen Regent left the palace.

Aramis glanced at Anne, her eyes wide with fear, then towards the convent they had just left. The queen had paid a visit to the convent to compliment the nuns on their charitable work in helping refugees, offering a generous donation to support their cause. Aramis had come along mostly as an excuse to spend time with her. It was a chance to get away from his desk and the pesky councilors who lingered about the palace, and if that meant he got to spent the ride alone in a carriage with Anne, then all the better. There’d been no reason to think there would be any danger on this trip. And yet...

The convent gates were already closed. Aramis and Anne had crossed the street to rejoin the queen’s guards as they prepared to depart. They couldn’t get back inside the convent without abandoning the minimal cover they had as they cowered behind the carriage. Crossing the open street would make them easy targets.

The musket fire seemed to come from relatively nearby. Had the shots been fired from the upper story of that building? Or perhaps by a gunman hidden within that alleyway? They had to be close. The convent and its gardens took up one side of the street, and across from it were mostly modest townhomes, housing the families of merchants and respectable business owners. Could one of those houses be harboring an assassin?

“Aramis, what do we do?” Anne asked.

Four guards had accompanied the queen and her chief minister on this excursion. One was already dead, another was injured and had been dragged to the other side of the street, where his comrade crouched at his side, attempting to return fire. The fourth guard had mounted on his horse and was closing in on the alleyway, attempting to flush out anyone hiding within. Aramis drew his own pistol and eyed the dead guard lying in the street.

“Stay here. Keep your head down,” Aramis said, then leaned around the carriage and fired. Two shots answered his, and in the silence afterwards, Aramis rushed into the street, knelt by the dead guard, and removed both his pistols and a bag of pre-rolled paper cartridges from his belt. As Aramis rose and dashed back toward the carriage, another shot rang out and he heard wood splinter nearby. They’d hit the carriage again. He ran and skidded to a halt at Anne’s side, crouching back down beside her.

Anne gripped his arm tightly, as if to keep him from running off again. “You could have been shot!”

“I could have been, but I wasn’t,” Aramis said. He was already availing himself of the paper cartridges he’d collected from the dead guard to reload his own pistol. “Every three shots, they pause to reload.” He handed his now loaded pistol to Anne and then checked the two he’d taken from the guard. Both loaded and ready. Anne looked at the pistol he’d thrust into her hands with wide eyes.

“What do you expect me to do with this?” she asked.

It occurred to Aramis that he really should teach her to shoot. Yes, she was the queen, but she had been more than willing to help roll cartridges when they’d taken refuge in the convent eight years ago. Despite her privileged upbringing, she’d always been eager to find ways to be useful, and he was sure she could handle a pistol if she had to. And she might have to.

“Use it if necessity arises?” Aramis said, a question in his voice. She stared at him with a raised eyebrow. He shrugged. “Or get ready to hand it to me when I tell you to.”

He heard the guards calling to one another, mixed with panicked shouting from locals who had found themselves caught in the crossfire. In the chaos, Aramis couldn’t make out what anyone was saying.

“If they have to reload after three shots, does that mean there are three men or one man with three weapons?” Anne asked.

Aramis grinned at her. “That is precisely the right question.”

He heard the clash of swords, and two more shots. Swords meant the royal guards were engaging one or more assailants. Given that he was fairly certain one of the shots came from that second-story window, that left at least one more shooter unaccounted for. “Sounds like at least three men,” Aramis said. “But it’s safer to assume they have back up. Maybe they only have three decent pistols amongst them.” He looked around the corner of the carriage and saw the sword fight, one of their guards locked in battle with a dark-clad figure wielding both sword and dagger, while two more men emerged from the alley. It looked as though the guard on horseback had managed to flush the enemy out into the street. Which meant that, under normal circumstances, Aramis would be more than willing to throw himself into the midst of the growing street fight and engage their attackers head-on. But not with the queen at his side, not when it would mean leaving her alone and unguarded.

He looked down the street in the opposite direction. The convent gardens butted up against several acres of woods. It would provide some cover at least.

“We’re going to run for those woods,” he said. He glanced at her gown and wondered if she actually could run in those clothes. Anne saw the direction of his gaze and hastily pulled up the long outer skirt, tucking it into the sash at her waist so it wouldn’t impede her movement, then stared back at him with a challenge in her eyes. Fair enough, Aramis thought.

“Wait until I say,” he told her. He readied both pistols, one in each hand, and then stood, stepping out from behind the carriage. He saw the men fighting in the street, but ignored them, taking aim at the upper window on the corner building, the one at the edge of the alley overlooking the street. His pistol raised, he waited for the space of one breath. Then another. A movement in the window was all he needed. Aramis fired just as the would-be assassin leaned forward to take a shot. He didn’t wait to see what happened next. Hooking the spent pistol to his belt, he turned back to Anne.

“Run!” he said, grabbing Anne by the hand and then pushing her on ahead of him. “Don’t stop once you reach the woods. I’ll be right behind you.”

Anne did, and Aramis paused, watching the guards as they attempted to hold off the attackers. Aramis nodded to them, and then ran after the queen.

She’d just made it to the woods when a gunshot rang out. Anne dropped to the ground, and for a moment Aramis thought she’d been hit. Then he saw her crouched down in the brush and he realized then that she’d simply ducked and taken cover. Aramis turned around to see a man rushing towards them. Aramis raised his second pistol and pointed it at their pursuer. He squeezed the trigger and then...

Nothing. The powder failed to ignite.

Well, that shouldn’t have happened. With a muttered curse, Aramis threw the defective pistol at their attacker before he ran for the woods.

As he turned, another shot rang out. This time, Aramis’s breath caught in a gasp of shock as a trail of fire streaked across his left shoulder blade. Aramis stumbled, landing heavily on one knee. He swore again. It was bad luck that their pursuer also had a second pistol—and unfortunately his weapon didn’t misfire as Aramis’s had.

Drawing his sword, Aramis turned just as the man was nearly on him, parrying a blade that came towards his head. He pivoted, pushing the man back with a slash of his blade that bought Aramis enough space to rise from his knees and regain his balance. Whoever this man was, he wasn’t an especially well-trained swordsman, for which Aramis was grateful as he parried again, then twisted a feint into a smooth thrust through the man’s chest. He pulled the blade out of bloodied flesh, and Aramis barely waited to see his attacker slump to the ground before he was running again.

Once he reached the woods and the spot of brush where Anne had taken cover, he reached down to grasp her arm and dragged her to her feet. Her eyes widened when she took in his appearance, and she glanced behind him.

“We have to move, before any of the others make it past the guards,” Aramis said. They could still hear the shouting and clashing of swords back down the street. Anne nodded. She held out Aramis’s pistol to him, but he shook his head. Sword gripped in his right hand, he grasped her hand with his left and pulled her along as they fled deeper into the woods.

He didn’t know how long they’d been running, when Anne tugged on his hand, urging him to stop.

“Aramis,” she gasped. “Stop. You have to stop.”

He wanted to argue but she dug in her heels and pulled on his hand, still held in hers. The sudden jerk on his left arm sent a spark of pain up through his shoulder and down into his back. His breath stuttered, and he bit back a groan. But it had the desired effect as he stopped beside her, both of them nearly gasping for breath and leaning on a tree trunk.

“Listen,” Anne said softly.

Aramis did. They were deep enough into the woods that the sounds of the city (and more importantly, the sounds of fighting) didn’t reach them, and there was no sound of pursuit from within the woods. The forest was quiet except for their own ragged breathing.

He looked her over carefully. “Are you all right? Are you hurt?”

Anne shook her head and stared at him in disbelief. “You’re bleeding,” Anne said softly, her voice steady despite their mad dash.

Aramis merely nodded.

“Is it...” she trailed off, her voice uncertain. He could hear her swallow and then try again. “Let me see,” she demanded, turning him away from her so she could see the back of his shoulder. He wasn’t sure what she intended to do, and the soft gasp she emitted was enough to tell him that neither did she. She was the Queen of France. Of course, she hadn’t the faintest idea what to do with a gunshot wound.

Standing up straighter, and ignoring the spasms of pain that seized every muscle around his shoulder, Aramis sheathed his sword and hastily removed his doublet, wincing as he did so. Then he reached his hand back up and over his shoulder to try to get a sense of whatever it was she saw. The motion itself caused a sharp stab of pain, and his hand came away wet with blood.

“Well, that isn’t helpful,” he muttered. He tried again, moving his fingers along the tear in his shirt to find a long gouge of bloodied and torn flesh. He closed his eyes against a fresh wave of agony caused by his own clumsy fingers probing the wound. Aramis sighed, sunk to his knees and wiped his bloody fingers on his breeches, closing his eyes and breathing slowly. When he opened his eyes again, he was met with Anne’s worried face, her hand coming to his cradle his cheek in a tender gesture that made him smile.

“It’s fine,” Aramis said. “You needn’t worry.”

Her eyes widened and he saw her lips tighten in an expression of displeasure he’d come to recognize. Oh no, that wasn’t a good look.

“You’re bleeding,” Anne said. “It is not fine.”

He huffed out a half-hearted laugh. “Okay. True. But I’ve had worse.”

“Aramis, there is blood pouring down your back.”

He thought that was probably an exaggeration, but to be fair, she wasn’t exactly used to battle wounds, so he was sure it looked worse to her than it actually was.

“I don’t think the ball entered my shoulder. It was probably just a glancing shot.”

“Are you certain?”

He wasn’t, actually. It was difficult to be sure when he couldn’t see the wound itself. In normal circumstances he’d want to examine the wound closer but...

He dug a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. “If you can clear away the blood, just enough to see that there isn’t a round entry wound, then...” Aramis realized the absurdity of what he was saying. He was asking the Queen of France to clean the blood from his wound. He was about to take it back, tell her again that it would be fine, when she took a deep breath, steeled herself with a determined expression, and took the handkerchief from him.

She stood and moved behind him, leaning over him as he knelt on the ground in front of her. She gingerly brushed the handkerchief along the wound several times. “It’s hard to see,” she said quietly. “There’s so much blood.”

Aramis shook his head. “No, it always seems that way, but it’s not as much as you think.” He wasn’t sure if he was lying or not, but he figured it was better to err on the side of caution. While he felt fiery, stabbing pains along his shoulder blade, he didn’t feel the deep pulsating agony he associated with a musket ball burying itself into muscle.

Realizing that the gentle motion of the handkerchief was ineffective, Anne pressed harder, trying to soak up the blood. Aramis bit back a groan. After several long moments, she pulled back the handkerchief and peered at his shoulder.

“The wound is long, and ragged like torn cloth. But I don’t see any... round holes?”

Aramis nodded. “That’s good. It doesn’t feel bad.” That wasn’t entirely true. “It’d feel much worse if there was an entry wound with the ball still inside.” But that much was true. Even though his shoulder throbbed with every breath he took, he knew first-hand how truly agonizing it would be if the ball had penetrated deeply.

Anne came around to look him in the eye, her lips twisted with worry. He smiled and reached out with his right hand, grasping her arm and giving it a comforting squeeze.

“It sounds like we lost them for now. The royal guards will take care of the rest, or send for reinforcements if needed. We should wait here for a few moments. If it seems that all is clear, we can circle back to the convent and wait there, or fetch a horse to return to the Louvre.”

He looked around for his pistol, the one she’d carried for him. It lay on the ground beside them, and Aramis consoled himself with the thought that at least his pistol wouldn’t misfire. He’d have to ensure that d’Artagnan gave the royal guards extra drills to practice proper care and loading of their weapons. He should probably reload the one remaining pistol he’d taken from the guard. He pulled it from his belt to do just that, while Anne settled on the ground beside him and reached for the edge of her outer skirt, tugging on it determinedly.

“What are you doing?”

She frowned, struggling with the fabric before she looked up at him. “You have a dagger, I presume?” He nodded, and gestured to the sheath in his boot. She gave him an incredulous look. “How many weapons do you typically carry on your person?”

“Fewer than I used to,” he quipped, a wry smile tugging at his lips.

She pulled the knife from his boot and prepared to slice through her silk skirt.

Aramis frowned. “No, don’t... your gown will be ruined.”

“You think I care about my gown? At a time like this?” She sliced a long strip of silk and wadded it up, then held it to his shoulder. He saw the intensity in her gaze as she focused on her self-appointed task.

“Well,” Aramis considered, keeping his tone light as he replied, “now that I’ve seen the palace accounts, I happen to know how much it’s worth, so...”

“It’s not worth your life!” Anne snapped.

Aramis winced. He’d expected the light-hearted comment to relieve the tension. Clearly, he had misjudged the extent of her concern. Or perhaps he’d forgotten that these circumstances were not nearly as familiar for her as they were for him. She’d seen him joke in the face of danger before, but not since she’d become Queen Regent, not since he’d taken his position in her court and their relationship had changed. When they’d been in such circumstances before, when he’d laughed at danger with a light-hearted grin, he’d done so as a musketeer, her protector. Not her lover.

“Hey,” he said gently. “Look at me.” Anne’s eyes darted away from the blood seeping into the torn strip of her gown and to his face. When their eyes met, he saw the genuine fear there. “I am not going to die.”

She looked away. “Probably not. If I can get this bleeding stopped.”

“Anne...”

“No!” she snapped again, and when her eyes returned to his, her gaze was steady. “If it were anyone else with this wound... if it was d’Artagnan or Porthos or Constance or...” she swallowed, “or me. If it was any of us, you wouldn’t be so certain that it was nothing. If it was anyone else, you’d be taking this seriously and insisting the wound is treated before you lose too much blood or before the wound festers or...” her voice broke slightly as she swallowed down her panic.

He couldn’t exactly say she was wrong. While he knew he sometimes seemed cavalier about his comrades’ injuries, joking about his needlework and telling stories of more gruesome wounds he’d tended in the past, behind the light-hearted quips he took every wound deadly-seriously. Of course, because he took all those wounds seriously, he was best able to judge which were truly life-threatening. And this one was not. Although, would that have prevented him from worrying if it had been Anne who was injured?

Anne drew in a few deep breaths to steady herself, and before Aramis could say anything, she spoke in the tone of a lover, not a queen. “Even if you are right, and the wound isn’t severe… Aramis, that is a risk I cannot take, not when it comes to you. I couldn’t bear it if something happened to you. So please,” Anne’s voice grew impossibly softer. “Don’t treat me like a child. Tell me the truth. And then tell me what I can do to help.”

Her words stole the breath from him more than his wound ever could. Aramis reached up to her, his hand cupping the side of her neck and squeezing gently.

“I am telling you the truth. This is not a deadly wound. But you’re right that I would want to treat it if this were anyone else. I’d do it myself if I could, but...” She nodded in understanding. There was no way he could reach the wound.

“Then tell me what to do.” Still, Aramis hesitated. “If it were Constance here instead of me, what would you tell her to do? How would she help you?”

Aramis took a deep breath and conceded. “The best thing to do is try to stop the bleeding. Or slow it, at least. And you can do that…” he bit his lip, knowing neither of them would enjoy this. “But it will take more pressure than you’re using now.”

“All right. What must I do?”

Aramis turned, still kneeling, and braced himself against the trunk of the tree with his body angled to give her access to his back. He gestured for Anne to stand above him. “You need to press down with both hands, and lean down with your full weight to exert more pressure.”

Anne frowned, but moved into position, moving the torn silk to fully cover the wound and then positioning her hands over it, one on top of the other. When Aramis nodded, she leaned down, pressing deeply into the wound until Aramis’s breath hitched. He grit his teeth and stifled a groan as the pain flared through his back and left him panting for breath.

“Is this enough to…?”

“Yes,” he said.

“How long should I…?”

“It’s hard to say. Let me know when your hands tire.”

She sighed and he could hear her impatience, her reluctance to continue causing him pain, but she kept up the pressure. For long moments, neither spoke. Aramis kept his eyes on the woods, attempting to keep watch while he regulated his breathing, and Anne kept her focus on her task.

Eventually, Aramis broke the silence. “You don’t need to be Constance,” he said softly. Anne didn’t respond, seeming frozen, and Aramis wished he could see her face, wished he could tell what she was thinking. “You wanted to know what Constance would do in this situation. But I don’t expect that of you. You don’t need to be anyone other than who you are. Not for me.”

Anne let out a soft sound, and then, without letting up the pressure on his shoulder, leaned down to kiss his temple.

“And I love you for it, for the way you’ve always seen me instead of just a queen.” She shifted slightly, and he could feel her readjusting her position to give her hands some relief without letting up on the pressure. “But any time we are faced with danger, my mind goes blank with panic, with fears of losing you or…” her voice dropped “our son.” He heard her breath stutter and he thought she might be holding back a few tears. He wished he could turn around to hold her and chase those tears away. “You react to danger as I would to a change in the weather, and meanwhile, every time I’m seized by such fear—” She broke off, took a breath, and tried again. “I know I wasn’t born to this. I could never learn to fight like Constance. But I’d like to feel as if I’m not completely useless whenever we find ourselves in danger.”

The shooting pain had settled into a throbbing ache, and Aramis breathed deeply, feeling his chest expand. The movement didn’t set off anything more than a dull tug at his wound, the radiating pain of strained muscles reacting to his movements.

“You can take your hands away,” he said.                              

“What?”

“Gently ease off the pressure and see if the bleeding has slowed.”

Tentatively, Anne did, pulling back the rough bandage she’d made. “I think… there’s only a little now. It looks… sluggish. A trickle?”

“Good,” Aramis said. “Fresh bandages would be ideal, but since we don’t have any…” Anne picked up his dagger to tear another strip off her skirt. “Or there’s that,” Aramis acknowledged. She gave him a swift look of reproach, and he couldn’t help but smile at the fire in her eyes. “Fold it and place it on the wound. I’ll pull my doublet over it, and it should hold for now.”

She did as he instructed, and helped him into his doublet, buttoning it in place. Aramis took a breath and began to stand, flashing Anne a grateful smile when she took his arm to support him.

“There, see?” he said with a smile. “Not useless at all.” She smiled back, and it was only slightly watery. He wrapped his right arm around her and dropped a kiss onto her forehead. “We’ll be fine,” he whispered.

In truth, Aramis felt a bit light-headed, and he knew the blood loss, while not fatal, could cause problems if they were stuck out here too long. Still, he was more than fine to stand and begin planning their next steps.

Anne handed him his pistol, and they cautiously surveyed the immediate area before agreeing it was best to slowly circle through the woods and back towards the street that led to the convent.

They proceeded slowly, pausing to listen for any sounds to indicate that their attackers had entered the woods to search for them. But their only companions seemed to be birds, twittering in the tree tops. When they neared the edge of the woods, they were surprised to find not one of their pursuers attempting to complete the job, and not the royal guards searching for them, but a horse, contentedly grazing in a clearing.

Aramis looked at Anne and gave her a one shouldered shrug before he slowly approached it, recognizing the tack and gear as belonging to the royal guard. So… no guards but at least they’d run into one of their horses. Catching the reins, Aramis gently approached and the horse huffed a greeting. Anne followed and rested one hand on the horse’s neck.

“What do you say, Your Majesty?” Aramis flashed her a smile. “We could ride and be back to the Louvre by dusk.”

She leveled an assessing stare at him. “Are you able to ride?” she asked.

Aramis wanted to be offended, but it was a fair question. “As long as I don’t pull on my shoulder too much. I can hold the reins one-handed. It’s not ideal but…” Truth be told, he thought the bigger problem would be getting onto the horse. He was sure he could manage, but it wasn’t going to pleasant. Riding with a gunshot would never was.

Anne knelt to take the dagger from where she’d replaced it in Aramis’s boot sheath, and quickly sliced a slit into her already-ragged outer skirts, allowing her fuller range of motion as she only had to manage the looser underskirt. She handed him back the dagger and grabbed the horse’s reins herself, holding the horse steady.

“Mount up first,” she instructed. “You’ll have to help pull me up with your right hand.” Aramis raised an eyebrow at the command, but did as she instructed, albeit with some difficulty. He couldn’t contain a groan as he sung himself into the saddle, clutching the pommel with his right hand as he held his left arm tightly against his side and waited for the pain to subside. After a few deep breaths, he nodded and looked down at Anne. She handed him the reins, pulled her skirts up above her knees to expose long stockings, and then took Aramis’s outstretched hand. Pulling her up onto the horse one-handed was awkward at best, and Aramis had to bite back a cry when their movements jostled his shoulder.

When Anne eventually settled in front of him in the saddle, she sat astride the horse, her outer skirt torn and sliced so that it fell gracefully on either side of her. It occurred to Aramis that he’d only rarely seen her ride at all, and when she did, she almost always rode side-saddle. When she plucked the reins from his hands, Aramis looked at her in surprise.

“I can ride a horse, you know,” she said sweetly. “I used to ride quite often as a girl.”

“What made you stop?” he asked.

“Louis…” she paused. “I outrode my late-husband in a horse race, shortly after I arrived in France. We were little more than children ourselves, just playing in the palace grounds, but Louis was a sore loser and I was an easy target for his ire. I loved riding, but I didn’t want to risk irritating him, not when his moods were already so difficult to predict. I rode less and less after that, until eventually I just… stopped.”

Sitting behind her in the saddle, Aramis couldn’t see her face, so he pressed a kiss to her neck, just below her ear to offer comfort. “I can’t imagine why anyone would want you to give up something you enjoy. You should never be forced to make less of yourself just to pacify a man’s pride. I hope you know that. You don’t have to stifle your desires for anyone, and you should ride as often as you want.”

Anne leaned back against him, the warmth of her body pressed against his. She turned her head slightly, and with coy grin, said, “monsieur, what a scandalous thing to say.”

Aramis burst out laughing and was delighted with her answering giggle as they rode off toward the palace.

They caused quite a stir, the Queen of France riding into the courtyard of the Louvre, not riding sidesaddle as a lady should, but sitting astride a borrowed horse and holding its reins, with her first minister riding behind her. Anne had barely been helped down from the horse before she began spitting out orders to the guards, demanding to send out patrols to track down those who had dared attack her person, and insisting she be updated on what had happened in her absence. It seemed two of the guards had returned for reinforcements, and several of their attackers were already dead (including the shooter in the window, whom Aramis had shot as they fled).

A groom helped the first minister down from the horse, and despite the throbbing in his shoulder, Aramis couldn’t help but smile as he watched a dozen men jump at Anne’s commands. He couldn’t imagine wanting Anne to be anyone else but who she was, and he couldn’t fathom how any man would find her to be less than extraordinary.

He gasped as his movement pulled at his shoulder, and he looked away from Anne to signal a servant. Anne cast a glance over her shoulder when she sensed that he wasn’t following her, a question in her eyes that clearly asked if he was all right. He gave her a reassuring nod, gesturing that he’d be along in minute.

When she’d returned to giving orders, he turned to the servant.

“Would you send someone to the musketeers’ garrison to fetch Madame d’Artagnan, please? Tell her to bring her sewing kit with her.” The servant bowed and left to do as he’d asked, and Aramis followed in Anne’s wake as he slowly made his way up the steps and into the palace.

He was more than happy to help Anne learn the skills she’d need to keep calm in a crisis, to help her find ways she could feel useful, even to accept the help she offered him. But if his wound needed stitching, that was where he’d draw the line. No one but Constance was allowed near him with a needle.