Chapter Text
On the day of Rochefort’s death, Anne had told her husband that she couldn’t bear to remain in her former quarters after what had happened there and he had, without question, arranged new rooms for her and the Dauphin. That occupied her for a few days and diverted attention from the true cause of her restlessness – her misgivings over the war with the country of her birth, and the inescapable end of her affair with Aramis. She knew now, that nothing could ever come of it, and while she had always known it on some level, she’d allowed herself that flicker of hope, those stolen moments and glances to sustain it. However, in the aftermath of Rochefort’s accusations, she knew she would never be able to risk being seen with him again.
In those first few days after war was declared, she was haunted by fears of what might happen to him. Terrified that her husband might not be completely convinced: that an accident might so easily be arranged – a strap cut on a saddle, a knife in an alleyway, poison in his broth, it would be all too easy. And even if those fears proved to be unfounded, she was terrified that Aramis might be killed in the war.
It hurt, letting him go. In public she remained the image of the devoted wife and Queen, but in private she grieved for herself, for her lover, and for her son who would never know his true father. She would not let herself think of Marguerite, whose death she was convinced was as much her responsibility as it was Aramis’s and Rochefort’s and too painful to confront.
When Constance returned to the palace after the departure of D’Artagnan and the musketeers, both women were moody and withdrawn and remained mostly in the Queen’s new apartments. More than a week passed before the Queen could bear it no longer. They were playing with the Dauphin, the only thing that brought her any real joy, when he tripped and nearly fell flat on his face. Constance caught him and he laughed up at her, his eyes dancing with mirth, looking so much like his father that Anne’s heart caught in her throat.
Constance saw it too, and the two women held each other’s gaze for a long moment, before Anne finally whispered, “Is there any news?”
Constance didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “He didn’t go with them, Your Majesty. He resigned his commission and retired to a monastery.”
She did not say which one.
“They went after him of course, tried to convince him to join them, but he refused.”
She hesitated for a moment.
“He said he’d made a vow to God that if He spared your life, and his, he would devote the rest of his days to God’s will, and that he couldn’t break that vow.”
Constance watched as a million emotions raced across the Queen’s face. Finally she looked up again, and to her companion’s surprise, she smiled. “So, he’s safe? He’ll have a life away from all this… insanity.” She reached over and took her son from Constance, hugging him tight and burying her face in his hair. “He’ll be safe” she murmured happily.
For the first time in weeks, the Queen slept well that night.