the musketeer's seamstress (4 page)
Read the musketeer's seamstress Online
Authors: Sarah d'Almeida
“Did she tell you what happened?” Athos asked.
Again the elaborate shrug. “She was dead. But from her balcony there came a sound and we went to look. We think the miscreant who was with her, jumped from her window.”
“On what floor was your mistress?” Athos asked. “And did you see him jump?”
“Third floor, and no,” she said. “In fact . . .” She shrugged again. “It is hard to believe he could have jumped. But he must have, because he left behind his musketeer’s uniform. So he was there with her. And the door was locked. Who else could have done it?”
“He was the musketeer who goes by Aramis,” one of the men said.
“That’s his friend,” another of them said. “Where is he, Monsieur?”
“Sangre Dieu,”
Athos said. “My friend Aramis is there.” Aramis had enough presence of mind to look over his shoulder at the sound of his name, showing just his chin, a bit of his face, not enough for them to examine for blood, but enough that his reaction of turning to look seemed natural and proper. “He’s been with us all night, playing dice.”
Athos said. “My friend Aramis is there.” Aramis had enough presence of mind to look over his shoulder at the sound of his name, showing just his chin, a bit of his face, not enough for them to examine for blood, but enough that his reaction of turning to look seemed natural and proper. “He’s been with us all night, playing dice.”
“Are you sure?” the man who led the searchers asked. “Because he—”
“Would I not know who my friend is?”
“And he’s been with us all the night,” Porthos said. “Wish he hadn’t been, in fact. He’s won quite a few pistols off me.”
“May I help you?” Aramis asked.
The man looked confused. He turned to the woman, “I thought you said—”
The woman shrugged again, theatrically. “He was blond and handsome and dressed in a musketeer’s uniform. How am I to know if it was the same? My mistress seemed to be very fond of him, but—”
Unspoken, in the air, was the fickleness of women in general and noblewomen in particular, and if none of them would say it, then neither would Athos that most women at court had the mind and manners of a cat in heat. It had so long been an article of faith with him, at any rate, that it would come as no surprise to anyone who knew him.
The maid of honor was giving Aramis’s back a suspicious look. “Someone,” she said, “ran through the garden. And scrabbled up the wall, leaving a trail of blood. Someone who left a uniform behind in my lady’s room. Surely you’re not going to tell us a man could run naked through the palace and out here without anyone noticing.”
“Except, perhaps, he stole a uniform?” Athos asked. “A servant’s uniform, perhaps? The better to disguise himself?”
The men with the dogs looked at each other, while their companions traded equally suspicion-laden glares.
“But,” one at the back that looked to be the brightest, or at least the most alert of them, said. “Someone ran ahead of us. Someone the dogs were following.”
“Well,” Athos said. “As to that, there was a man who came running out of the palace. Blond and scared looking.” For just a moment he was afraid that Aramis, in the state he was, would assume Athos was giving him away and would try to run. But Athos didn’t dare to turn and look at Aramis, so he continued. “He ran past us and over there.” He pointed to the place where he had, carefully, scuffled the sand.
“Look,” one of them said. “He’s right. The footprints lead this way.”
They followed to the place where sand met road. Athos didn’t go with them, not wanting to look overeager. His friends were displaying cool heads and self-control even better than what he’d come to expect of them. Aramis and Porthos remained sitting, looking at the cup D’Artagnan was shaking with the motion and expression of the man who can barely wait for a pointless interruption to be over so he can resume his all-important game of dice.
“There are no horse hoof prints,” one of the men said.
“Oh, don’t be an idiot,” the other answered. “Can’t you tell the horses would be on the paved road?”
“Hey you,” one of them yelled turning towards Athos. And, doubtless, seeing the expression on Athos’s face hastily changed it to, “Monsieur Musketeer, would you please tell us if this man had horses?”
“There were horses and a group of people by the road,” Athos said. He pointed down the road. “They rode away towards Paris.”
A discussion followed among the men and the one woman, about which of them would go on, which ones would stay and who would go tell the captain of the musketeers as well as their majesties themselves, that there had been murder done within the royal precinct.
Horses were brought forth. Two of the men mounted, to follow the imaginary fugitives.
The other ones melted into the night but, before doing it, one of them looked at Athos and said, “Why did you not stop this fugitive, then?”
Athos shrugged. “My purpose,” he said. “Is to prevent people from coming into the palace, not to stop people from leaving. I couldn’t desert my post to go haggle with people disposed to leaving.”
They had no defense against those words which were— even if insane—undeniably, true.
When they had vanished into the night and even the whining and scuffling of the dogs on the leash could no longer be heard, he turned to see how Aramis was holding up.
Aramis had slumped forward onto the sand and lay immobile.
Where Strength Is Tested; The Sad Lot of the Musketeer’s Servant; The Inevitability of Drunken Musketeers
P
ORTHOS rounded on Aramis. He knew there had been some great harm done. Not that he quite understood it. From what he had heard of the servants’ talk, a woman had been killed.
ORTHOS rounded on Aramis. He knew there had been some great harm done. Not that he quite understood it. From what he had heard of the servants’ talk, a woman had been killed.
Porthos had known Aramis for many years—since the young man, then barely more than a child, had arrived at Porthos’s thriving fencing school and asked to be taught— within a month or less—all there was to know about the art of sword fighting. Though Aramis had learned well enough and fought the duel, too, Porthos had never thought Aramis could kill a woman. In fact he’d never seen Aramis quite angry enough to even be rude to a woman.
As Porthos had observed of his young friend’s life, Aramis had no need at all to attack women. Women fell over themselves to please Aramis and never seemed to even exhibit much jealousy over his other sincere worshippers.
Confused and shocked at seeing his friend collapse forward, Porthos put out a huge hand upon Aramis’s shoulder. “Aramis,” he said.
But Aramis only made a sound, not quite a word. He’d been kneeling and sitting on his ankles, and upon collapsing, he’d collapsed forward, folding on himself. Porthos grasped his shoulder and pulled him upright by force of strength and determination. “Aramis, are you wounded? And who have you killed? And why?”
Aramis looked at Porthos, but his green eyes normally inclined to mirth and intent with observation looked unfocused. It was, Porthos thought, as though Aramis were very drunk or had suffered a blow to the head, as his eyes would not focus. “I didn’t—” he said. “Violette.” And then he slumped forward again, in silence.
Porthos noticed that D’Artagnan and Athos traded a look. Athos nodded, as though some conversation had passed between them. Porthos hated it when his friends did that, communicating without saying the words openly. It smacked, it seemed to him, of treachery and slyness.
“We’ll get no sense out of him,” D’Artagnan said. Then he lowered his voice. “And, besides, it is quite likely anything he might say could sound incriminating. We should get him away to his lodgings as soon as it may be.”
Porthos nodded. “I’ll take him,” he said.
“Porthos,” Athos said. “You cannot. You are on guard duty.”
Porthos shrugged. “If anyone should check, tell them I am walking around, because I heard a suspicious sound. On a night such as this, no one will find it amiss.”
“But—” Athos said.
Porthos reached down and clasped his hands just under Aramis’s arms, hauling him up. The younger musketeer looked at him with nothing beyond mild surprise. “Can either of you hold him up, should he not find his feet?”
Both his friends shook their heads. Porthos nodded, as if his question had been perfectly answered. He was a simple man and unused to matters of philosophy and theology. When his friends discussed such issues and used words that seemed to Porthos much too long to have any real meaning, Porthos either got bored or amused himself with his own thoughts.
A tall, strong man, he’s always been interested in the outdoors and physical sports. In fencing and riding and hunting. He thought with his hands as much as with his brain. This left him enough mind only to attempt to do what needed to be done and what needed to be done at that moment. It made him more practical and focused than any of his comrades and, in that, often the savior of them all.
And at this moment what needed to be done was getting Aramis back to his quarters with a minimum of notice. This—to Porthos—seemed to be most easily done by his supporting and half carrying Aramis.
The reputation of the musketeers was such that no one would notice if one of them were walking what seemed to be a very drunken comrade through the streets. Even if the comrade were barefoot. It wouldn’t be the first time that a musketeer lost his boots at dice. “Let D’Artagnan take my place,” he said. “While I walk Aramis back to his lodgings.”
“You must be careful,” Athos said. “There is every chance that his lodgings will be watched.”
D’Artagnan, who had been looking for a while as though he’d like to speak, now said, “I shall go with you Porthos. If we have to fight back an attack, I can take care of them.”
Porthos nodded. This seemed like a good idea to him. Besides, with two of them, one supporting Aramis on either side, it would look more natural. It was the classical way to help a drunken musketeer back to his abode.
“I’ll leave Aramis in the care of Bazin,” he said. Bazin was Aramis’s servant, who had followed him from his ancestral estate and who stayed with Aramis in the blessed hope that one day Aramis would join a monastery and Bazin would be able to join also as a lay brother. “And tell Bazin not to allow anyone in the house. You know he’s as capable as anyone of understanding that if Aramis is arrested for murder Bazin’s dream of joining a monastery will never come true.”
Athos nodded. He resumed his guard position, but his dour expression betrayed that he did not consider this a good arrangement.
Porthos worried about Athos. The man was, at the best of times, too hard drinking, too free with his gambling. At the worst times he became dour and inward looking, like a man meditating on some horrible memory.
That Athos had left behind some grand estate, some great position, was all too obvious. What would cause a great nobleman—a true nobleman and not like Porthos’s family only one step removed from its farming neighbors—to leave estate and family? Porthos had thought this over many times, and so far he’d come up with no answer. Only he fancied there was unhappy love in it and that a woman had caused his friend great hurt.
Glancing at D’Artagnan, Porthos nodded towards Aramis. D’Artagnan, as always, understood the words that were not said, and, as Porthos put his arm around Aramis’s waist, to support the younger man, he found D’Artagnan imitating the gesture from the other side.
They set out down the road towards the city of Paris proper. The palace the royal family was occupying just then sat on the outskirts of the city, in a sparsely populated suburb, bordering on woods. The road leading into town had been built by the Romans and assembled of stone blocks so finely fit together that not a blade could slide in between two of them. They’d been polished by centuries of use and till they’d become soft and slightly rounded under foot. Little stuck out that could cause Aramis to stumble, which was good because he seemed to stumble on his own feet.
They walked for a while in silence, passing nothing but trees and gardens that, while not enclosed in the palace wall, yet were part of the palace, used for rousing hunts and chaperoned walks. Past that, the road changed to one flanked by large houses set back within well maintained gardens. Farther down, the houses got closer to the road, until finally the front walls of the houses themselves, standing next to each other and connecting, formed as though a wall on either side of the road. The facades, ornate stone and carved windowsills, denoted these townhouses as being still prestigious and expensive.
Above a door here, and a window there, lanterns glowed, lighting the street weakly. And though it wasn’t very late at all, the streets were deserted. In this neighborhood, those who were still up and entertaining would be doing it within their houses, not outside.
Farther on, people walked along the street, in increasingly greater numbers as the roads grew narrower, the houses shabbier and covered in oft-crumbling plaster. Though the night had by then deepened to full dark, the only lanterns burned above tavern signs.
“Aramis,” D’Artagnan whispered. “Aramis—was your . . . seamstress killed? Did you kill her? Why—?”
Aramis turned his head slowly, looking at D’Artagnan as though trying to determine who the young man was. Or perhaps the meaning of the words he said. He started and made a sound like a sob caught at the back of his throat. “Violette,” he said, and his voice was high and complaining. “Violette,” he said, again, and looking at Porthos, added, “She’s dead, Porthos.”
“Shhh,” Porthos said. He glanced around. Only one or two people were looking in their direction and not at all curiously. After all they looked like three musketeers, two of them carrying a third, drunken comrade home. And such outbursts were not unusual from drunken musketeers.
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