Dying by the sword (4 page)

Read Dying by the sword Online

Authors: Sarah d'Almeida

BOOK: Dying by the sword
4.32Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
“You speak in riddles,” Porthos burst forth. “Who is this duchess? And what can she mean with the Queen? And what does all of it have to do with my poor Mousqueton? And when you say duchess, is she yet another of your seamstresses?”
The shocked look from Aramis might mean anything—including that the duchess was indeed one of his seamstresses, the name Aramis had used for many years to signify whichever noble lady he was, at the time, having a carnal liaison with. But before Aramis could answer, Monsieur de Treville cleared his throat calling their attention.
“I’m not going to credit Aramis’s rumor,” he said. “But I have heard rumors myself and, what’s more . . .” He shrugged. “As you know, I have friends among the guards of his eminence as, doubtless, he has friends among my musketeers.”
“If I find the dogs,” Porthos said, understanding that by friends Monsieur de Treville meant spies, “I will cut out their tongues.”
“You’ll do nothing of the kind,” Aramis interposed. “Do you not think that Monsieur de Treville knows who they are? A known spy is almost an ally. You can make sure he knows only what you want him to know and furthermore that he knows a lot of things that aren’t true.”
Porthos, who was quite bright enough but disdained this type of underhanded intrigue, turned to the captain, only to be met with a nod of acquiescence. “Indeed, my dear Porthos,” he said. “I beg you you will leave his eminence’s pet musketeers alone,” he said with the hint of amusement. “However, this is how it stands—rightly or wrongly, his eminence has interpreted some correspondence which he intercepted between the Duchess de . . . well, I need not name her, only to give her her nom de guerre, Marie Michon, and the Queen. And he has taken it into his head that the purpose of the two ladies’ conspiracy is to kill him and install another one in his place, in the King’s favor.” He shrugged. “I’m sure it’s all overblown suspicion, however . . .” He shrugged again. “You can see how this would make him wish to have one of your servants in his power.”
“I see nothing of the kind,” Porthos said. “What has poor Mousqueton to do with duchesses and queens?”
“Well,” Monsieur de Treville fixed the four with a slightly considering gaze. “It is an open secret, though certainly not openly discussed, that the Queen owes the four inseparables a favor. This being so, she might be convinced to abandon her interest in this conspiracy and, in fact, to denounce her friend wholly to the Cardinal, in order to avoid the inseparables’ servant being condemned on a murder charge.”
“
Dents Dieu
,” Porthos said. “You’d think that if she’s indebted to us, they’d try to arrest one of us, not our servant.”
The look the captain gave him was grave enough it would not have been out of place at a funeral. “Undoubtedly they did and they will, Porthos. Mousqueton was probably simply the easiest prey at the time. They know how loyal the Queen is, and that she might commit whatever folly for her friend. She has near disgraced herself for other friends in the past.”
“But . . .” Porthos said. “But . . . I would not want the Queen to compromise herself for my sake.” And after a hesitation, “Or even Mousqueton’s.”
But at the same time that he spoke, Athos said, “Do you mean to tell us, sir, that Cardinal Richelieu ordered the armorer murdered solely in order to entrap Porthos’s servant?”
“If he thought that would result in saving his life?” Monsieur de Treville said. “Yes, I do believe he would do so, do you not?”
Porthos could easily believe that Athos did not. Athos was a noble person—not just born a nobleman—and often had trouble believing the intrigues and dishonorable maneuvers that seemed to be part of living at court. And as much as all of them hated Richelieu, Athos’s noble spirit sometimes shrunk from what that gentleman would not stoop to do.
“But . . .” Porthos protested. “What are we to do? How can we save Mousqueton without compromising her Majesty?”
“There is only one way,” Monsieur de Treville said.
“We must find the true murderer and expose him,” Aramis said. “If the true murderer is exposed, then they will, perforce, have to let Mousqueton go.”
Porthos thought through this. Yes, that was undeniably true. Even if it had been one of the guards of the cardinal, it should be possible to expose his guilt. “But we will need time,” he said.
Monsieur de Treville shrugged again. “I’ll talk to the King, my dear Porthos. I understand you practically raised the young man, and that he’s almost like a son to you. And you have this comfort, Porthos, that the Cardinal will not easily dispose of so valuable a hostage. There will be no rush to execute Mousqueton. Not when he has hopes of bending the Queen to his will by virtue of her indebtedness to you.”
Porthos felt somewhat reassured but not as much as he’d wish to be. He couldn’t avoid the thought that at this very moment, his poor Mousqueton was in a place reckoned as one of the antechambers of Hell.
Their being dismissed, he stopped at the door, and turned inside for a final question, “Captain . . . would it be possible for me to see him?”
Doubts and Fears; The Ever Vanishing Musketeers; Only One Thing To Do
THEY walked out of the captain’s office and out through the antechamber, while the crowds of rowdy musketeers parted for them as though they were infected with a dread disease. Athos noticed it only with part of his mind, while the rest of it worked at what the captain had said.
Although no one in Paris would have classed a single of the inseparables as naive—D’Artagnan being the only exception and him people would only call naive until they got to know him better—from Athos’s perspective all of them were naive, or at least more trusting than himself. He cast a look sideways at each of them in turn.
Porthos seemed confident that the captain could at least keep Mousqueton from being executed for a good while. This might or might not be true, of course. It all depended on how fast Mousqueton lost his value as a hostage and on whether the person who had committed the crime was someone Richelieu valued. Athos could hardly imagine Rochefort being handed in for the sake of sparing Porthos’s servant. No, for his right-hand man, the Cardinal would fight as for his own life.
And the whole idea that the trap had been set for Mousqueton just because he happened to be alone and away from them—and if this were engineered by Richelieu, it would need believing just that—was disturbing. Did this mean each and every one of them was in similar danger? Each and every one of their servants? “Aramis,” he said, speaking as though out of his dreams, without looking at his friend. “And D’Artagnan.” He took a deep breath, bracing for what he was about to say, and any questions that might follow. “We must send messages to our servants now, if you know where yours are. Grimaud should be at home. Ask your servants to meet Grimaud at my home and stay there. And for neither of them to go out without at least one of us.”
There was a silence, and for a moment, Athos believed his friends would argue, but instead, what he heard was a deep sigh from Aramis, followed by, “Oh, Bazin will not like that.”
“I understand,” Athos said. “But I believe his safety must trump his preference in this matter.”
“Yes, I believe so too,” Aramis said. D’Artagnan didn’t say anything. They walked back, and into the captain’s compound, where they found three servants to take hastily scrawled notes to their servants. Porthos waited by, silently, as if deep in thought. Athos would like to believe that Porthos’s being deep in thought meant he was thinking of something sensible.
The problem with the redheaded giant—beyond his open warfare with language—was that Porthos’s brain seemed to work in a very original manner. Perhaps this came from his having been raised, wild and almost illiterate, cut off from civilized interaction, in a distant domain. Or perhaps it was just the way Porthos’s genius—and it was genius—worked.
But while he might be the only one of them to think of examining the pattern of blood drops at the scene of a crime
2
, and while this might be the key to the entire murder they were trying to solve, the truth was that Porthos’s ideas were often impractical, or disregarded such minor things as what other people might think or the possibility of being arrested for something.
Athos badly wanted to get Porthos to tell them what he was thinking about, but chances were the answer would muddle more than enlighten, so he kept quiet, as they walked back out of Monsieur de Treville’s residence, and onto the street once more. They walked, four abreast, down the street, forcing everyone else to take long detours around them, and to cast them almost fearful looks. Athos realized their steps were perfectly in rhythm, which, given their varying heights and walks, was somewhat of a miracle, and smiled despite himself.
In his life, he’d lost title and honor, wife and domain. But his friends made it possible for him to wake every day and do what must be done, no matter how many ghosts had haunted his remorse-plagued sleep.
At the next crossing, Aramis paused, and the rest of them stopped, one step forward, and turned to look at the blond musketeer.
Aramis tilted his head back to look at them, a frown of deep thought on his regular features. “I wonder . . .” he said.
“Yes?” Athos said.
Aramis nodded, but his mind seemed to be very far away. “That is,” he said, “I think I should go to the royal palace. After all, Mousqueton’s . . . friend . . . Hermengarde, lives there. Surely, if he did do this or if . . . if the problem is with the armorer, Hermengarde will know?”
“Mousqueton did not do this!” Porthos said, harshly.
“No. I don’t believe he did, Porthos, except maybe if it was in self-defense. Imagine that the armorer has some reason to hate Mousqueton. Imagine that . . . shall we say . . . the armorer thought he wanted to kill Mousqueton and advanced on him. Can you doubt that Mousqueton has seen enough swordplay to instinctively pick up a sword and . . .”
Porthos snorted. “Mousqueton might have seen swordplay, but that doesn’t make him an expert. Surely you’d seen swordplay before you came to me because you wished to fight your first duel. If I hadn’t taught you to wield a sword, how would that duel have gone with you?”
Aramis shook his head. “But he would be fighting against someone who is not a dueler.”
“Granted,” Porthos said. “But all good armorers are
trained
in the weapons they make. They study them and work at them and wield them in practice, so that they can tell how the balance should be and whether the weapon they just created is any good. And this one, Langelier père, was the best armorer in Paris. Not the most expensive but the best. I went to him because though his swords and knives were not ornate, they were the best balanced and the sturdiest. I know. I used to teach fencing.” He shook his head gravely. “My poor Mousqueton would not have a chance.”
Aramis sighed. “You don’t know. People do strange things in the grip of fear.”
Porthos shrugged. “By all means,” he said. “Go and ask Hermengarde, but I don’t think you’ll find anything. If Mousqueton had felt any animosity towards this armorer, count on it, I would have heard.”
Athos knew the interminable discussions Porthos and Aramis could get into. They resembled the bickering between brothers and often gave the impression they had been going on since the beginning of the world and would go on until the final trumpet. In this one, Aramis, contrary to form, was not using the longest words he could find in his vocabulary, or the convoluted argumentation methods taught to him by his Jesuit masters, but doubtless, that too would come, if Athos allowed the discussion to continue. Which Athos had no intention of doing. Instead he cut in. “Aramis, you cannot go alone.”
Aramis graced him with a sudden smile. “I cannot? And why not?”
“But you just saw . . . you just wrote a letter to Bazin, telling him to go and stay with Grimaud. Surely, you don’t think that you’ll be safe, if our servants aren’t?”
Aramis shrugged. “Bazin is notoriously bad with a sword,” he said. “If someone attacked him, he’d probably either bless them, or—if we’re lucky—hit them over the head with a crucifix. And since he doesn’t normally carry a crucifix about on his person, I’d have to guess the blessing part. I”—he smiled again—“am not Bazin.”
“I cannot approve of your risking yourself this way, Aramis,” Athos said. “After all, with the edict hanging over our heads, any duel could be a death sentence.”
“Not if you kill your enemy and his seconds, and there are no witnesses,” Aramis said. “That will keep you from being arrested.”
“Aramis!” Athos said. He could well understand his friend’s frustration at the idea that they were, yet again, in a situation where it was not safe to conduct business alone and without chaperonage. But then again, he must see the situation as it was. “Why do you believe you will be attacked, and not merely entrapped?”
Aramis shrugged. “If I’m entrapped, I’ll attack.”
“I could go with you,” D’Artagnan offered.
“I would prefer you don’t,” Aramis said. “If, as you believe, the Cardinal is seeking to entrap the Queen by taking Mousqueton—if, as the captain believes and as it is rumored, the Cardinal imagines conspiracies against his life . . . Then if I go alone to the palace, and they see me talking to Hermengarde, they will think that I am just talking to yet another woman.” He gave a little smile, quite different from his previous ones—half filled with rueful self-mockery. “You must know it is believed I’ll sleep with any woman at all. However, if I am with D’Artagnan, the Cardinal will wonder if we’re trying to circumvent his plan to entrap Mousqueton. Or if we’re part of some plot to kill him.” He looked at his fingernails. “You must see it can’t be done.”

Other books

Vampire in Denial by Mayer, Dale
Boot Camp Bride by Lizzie Lamb
Speed Dating by Nancy Warren
Por qué fracasan los países by Acemoglu, Daron | Robinson, James A.
The melody in our hearts by Roberta Capizzi
The Panda Theory by Pascal Garnier
01. Labyrinth of Dreams by Jack L. Chalker