Read the musketeer's seamstress Online
Authors: Sarah d'Almeida
the musketeer's seamstress (9 page)
Could Aramis kill the woman he loved? Why not? Others before him had. Athos himself . . . Athos stopped the image of his dead wife from surfacing in his mind. And yet . . . and yet, though he could believe Aramis capable of murder, he couldn’t believe him capable of deceiving his friends.
Oh, truth be told, Athos himself had never told his friends of his crime, his dark, secret remorse. But the crime had happened long before he met even Aramis or Porthos, much less D’Artagnan. And he’d asked for their help with neither cover-up nor expiation, both of which he was managing on his own, though perhaps not as well as he would like to.
But once they were friends and bonded as closely as brothers, Athos could not imagine any of them keeping a secret from the others. It was impossible. Aramis would have confessed to his transgression as he asked for help. He would have given his reason for the murder. And he would be sure as one could be sure of eventual death that his friends would stand by him no matter what his crime, stand as ready to save his neck in guilt as in innocence.
No, it was a puzzle without solution, Athos thought, as he followed the others—who’d taken his silence for acquiescence—along the narrow warren of roads that led to the working-class street in which D’Artagnan rented lodgings. And yet there was nothing for it but to try to solve it, the three of them—none of whom was particularly well suited to the solving of mysteries. And Aramis was their man in the court, the one who knew duchesses and consorted with countesses.
How was Athos, who was all but a recluse, going to do such a thing? And what were the chances of D’Artagnan, still new in town and a guard of Monsieur des Essarts—not even a musketeer—gaining entrance to the court? As for Porthos . . . Athos looked towards his friend who appeared both intent and worried, as if trying to solve some difficult puzzle and sighed. Porthos had trouble enough imagining anyone could lie, much less unraveling a duplicitous plot. It was all hopeless.
But at that moment they had reached D’Artagnan’s home and D’Artagnan unlocked the door. “Planchet will be out,” he said. “He said he needed to shop for food.”
Planchet being D’Artagnan’s servant, Athos supposed his absence made their conversation all the more private.
They climbed the staircase to D’Artagnan’s apartment, which was more spacious than Aramis’s, though in a less fashionable area of town. The entrance room sprawled large and was lit by two sunny windows that let the morning sun fall upon a broad table and a set of benches that D’Artagnan had got who knew where.
This was the accustomed council of war headquarters, where the musketeers and their friend discussed whatever occupied their minds at the moment. Porthos and Athos fell, wordlessly, into their accustomed seats, on either side of the table, while D’Artagnan went within for his ancestral salve.
While he was gone, Athos unlaced his doublet and pulled it off, then rolled his shirt sleeve up to reveal a jagged, deep wound on his forearm, just above his elbow.
“The devil,” Porthos said. “That does not look like a scratch.”
D’Artagnan, returning with salve and a roll of clean white linen said nothing. He merely set it on the table, beside Athos. “Do you wish to bandage it, or shall I?” he asked.
Athos shrugged. “I will need your help to tie the bandage,” he said. Left unsaid, but implied, was that he would prefer not to have anyone touch him unless it were strictly needed. Much as he disliked to admit it, any touch, any human touch at all, made him think of betrayal and mockery. He’d learned to be contained within himself and, in himself, contain all his own needs. Without another word, he started slathering the salve on his wound. The yellow green paste smelled of herbs and felt curiously soothing to the skin. It stopped the bleeding on contact.
“One thing I don’t understand,” Porthos said, while Athos was occupied at this task. He took a deep breath, like a man venturing onto unfamiliar waters. “Are we sure that this duchess was the woman Aramis called his seamstress? How could she be a duchess when she’s just the niece of his theology teacher?”
Athos looked up, startled, to meet Porthos’s innocent stare. He made a sound in his throat that he hoped didn’t seem like laughter and reached for the strips of linen that D’Artagnan had left at his hand.
D’Artagnan got up and stepped around to provide Athos with the extra hand needed for this task and said, as he was doing it, “The seamstress who writes to Aramis on lilac-perfumed paper?” he asked.
Porthos blinked.
“A seamstress who seals her letters with the imprint of a ducal crown,” D’Artagnan said, meaningly.
“But . . . why?” Porthos asked. “Why did the niece of a theology professor become a duchess? And how?”
Athos could have told D’Artagnan that trying to insinuate things wouldn’t work with Porthos. Porthos was not stupid, nor was he incapable of deception. In fact, Athos was privy to a deception that Porthos ran on his very own.
However, Porthos was abysmally bad at deception. So bad, in fact, that though Athos hadn’t spoken, he very much doubted either of their two other friends believed Porthos’s light of love to be the princess he said she was. Being naturally bad at deception, and abhorring confusing words and complex philosophies, Porthos naturally found it impossible to believe that Aramis, his closest friend, would run a more complex deception. He also would probably not understand at all why Aramis would call his duchess a seamstress while Porthos labored so hard to give the impression that he slept with crowned heads.
“There was never a niece of a theology professor,” he said, as Porthos looked at him. “Aramis has always been involved with a duchess.”
“A Spanish duchess?” Porthos asked, in tones of great amazement. “The maid yesterday called her by a string of . . .”
Athos shrugged and was rewarded with a firm pull on the ligature that D’Artagnan was attempting to tie. “She was Spanish by birth,” he said. “I believe she grew up with Anne of Austria, as one of the young noble ladies chosen to be her playfellows and friends from a tender age. And when the Queen married our King, Aramis’s
seamstress
, too, was sent to France as part of her escort, and her marriage to a French nobleman was arranged, at the same time as the royal marriage. Her title is Duchess de Dreux, an old duchy in Brittany.”
seamstress
, too, was sent to France as part of her escort, and her marriage to a French nobleman was arranged, at the same time as the royal marriage. Her title is Duchess de Dreux, an old duchy in Brittany.”
“She is . . . married then?” Porthos said, slowly. “Her husband is still living?
And for just a moment Athos thought that Porthos was going to express or fake moral outrage at the woman’s liaison with Aramis while she was married. Which would be strange from Porthos, whose own lover was the wife of an accountant. And Porthos normally was not hypocritical. His very own lack of ability to explain away things with words made him unable to explain or excuse himself to himself.
But, instead, Porthos said, “Where is her husband. Is he at court?”
“No,” Athos said. And thought of her husband who had been his playfellow, or what passed for such amid their class, with each family living in its own isolated estate and rarely meeting the others. Raoul de Dreux’s father and Athos’s father had been best friends and, as such, once or twice a year one of them undertook the journey to visit the other and then stayed several weeks at the other’s house, hunting through the fine mornings, discussing poetry or history or philosophy through the heat of the day. Both men had lost their wives at their sons’ births and, both fathers being unusually devoted to their offspring, the sons and their complement of maids and nurses traveled with the fathers when they went anywhere. Which was how Athos had come to share a nursery with Raoul from earliest infancy for some weeks every year. And a school room with him later on. They’d learned fencing and reading together and later—as they grew to adulthood—they had developed a friendship as strong as that of their fathers.
They had married very different women with results that, while not similar, were equally disastrous for both of them. The dissolution of Athos’s own marital bonds by means of a rope around his Countess’s neck had made Athos leave behind that, his most ancient friendship, as he had everything else—from estate to land to proud heritage.
He was surprised to find tears in his eyes and realize he was thinking with longing of the simple, uncomplicated friendship of childhood. As much as he liked and trusted his present friends, it was strange to have no one around who truly knew him, who’d seen him grow up, who remembered the garrulous young man as well as the silent musketeer.
“No,” he said. “Raoul . . . Monsieur de Dreux has no taste for the court. Truth be told, I never thought he had much taste for his wife. She was not . . . his kind. He is a quiet man, much fond of his books and his horses. She was bright and noisy and . . .” Athos realized he was relaying information from private letters and stopped. “The thing is that the marriage was arranged by his father, a glittering affair that meant not much. And then de Dreux returned to his domains, and his wife stayed in town.” He felt his lips twist into a wry smile, an expression that he knew well betrayed more bitterness than humor. “And found her own amusements.”
D’Artagnan had finished tying the bandage in place. “Could he have been jealous of her? Could he have found a way to murder her?”
“How?” Athos said. “By hiding under her bed while she entertained her lover?” He tried to imagine that situation and shook his head. “D’Artagnan, I don’t believe he cared enough for her to come to town and visit her, much less to kill her in a jealous fit.”
“You speak as though you know him?” Porthos said, as always cutting to the heart of the argument.
“I did,” Athos said. “Before I became a musketeer.” Porthos nodded. “And you don’t think he could be a murderer?”
Athos pulled down his sleeve. D’Artagnan had turned his back and was rummaging in a trunk by the window where he kept his glasses and his wine. He came back with them and poured wine for both his friends, while Athos put his doublet back on and laced it tight. The doublet gave him a feel of protection, of covering up his thoughts as well as his body. It was part of his musketeer’s uniform, a penitent’s clothing he had assumed as eagerly as other men assumed sackcloth and ashes.
“I’m not saying he couldn’t murder,” he said. “You must know, Porthos, for I’ve said it before and you’ve told me I was speaking nonsense, that I believe every man can be a murderer, given enough temptation and enough provocation. But Porthos, I don’t believe he is a murderer in this case. Not the murderer of his wife. If he loved her . . . Then I could believe he would turn on her.” He took a sip of his wine, which tasted sour and acid. He really must send some wine to D’Artagnan to keep for these occasions. Monsieur Des Essarts barely paid enough to his guards to keep them from begging on the streets. No wonder all the boy could afford for wine was barrel dregs.
“You believe if he loved her he would have killed her?” Porthos said. “That makes no sense at all, Athos. By that reasoning the most logical suspect would be—” Porthos stopped, as if his own horror had stayed his tongue.
“Aramis,” D’Artagnan said what Porthos could not say. He sat next to Porthos, facing Athos. The seat beside Athos, normally Aramis’s, was left vacant. “You suspect Aramis, do you not, Athos?”
“I don’t know. Do I suspect him of the crime?” Athos lifted his glass of red wine to the light and looked through it. “Perhaps. I can’t say I didn’t think of it and you must admit it is the most logical solution. Aramis was alone with her, behind a closed door. Who else could have killed her?”
“But,” D’Artagnan said in the tone of one who prompts.
“I cannot believe you are saying this,” Porthos said, still looking shocked. “I cannot believe you’d think that of a friend.”
“What makes you sure that there is a but?” Athos asked D’Artagnan, ignoring Porthos’s outrage.
“There has to be a but, otherwise you’d have demanded of Aramis why he had killed her. And you wouldn’t have told him to leave town till we could clear his name. You’d have told him to leave town and pledge himself to some remote monastery, some out of the way retreat, where he could disappear forever.”
Athos nodded. “There is indeed a but, and that is that I can’t believe Aramis would lie to us. And there you have it, Porthos, I do not think that of my friend.”
“Your reasoning seems flawed. Aramis lies all the time,” D’Artagnan said, looking puzzled. “He’s a courtier. He lies as he breathes.”
“D’Artagnan. I cannot believe that both of you would so revile—” Loyal Porthos said.
“Peace, Porthos,” D’Artagnan said. “I am not reviling anyone. But surely you know that Aramis lies to us all the time. He makes up stories to explain his presence where he shouldn’t be. He talks of the duchess of this and what she said to the marquess of that, and all the time I’m sure he’s just spreading rumors or passing them on, which is a lie after all. He lies to be diverting, he lies to protect others and he lies to hide the true cause of his actions. I’ve known this about him since we first met, notwithstanding which I consider him a true friend and one of the best men I’ve ever known.” He looked across at Athos, a keen, examining look. “But his being the best of men, I still fail to understand why Athos thinks he wouldn’t lie to us.”
Athos smiled. “Oh, he’ll lie to us well enough.” He lifted his hand to still the protest he saw forming in Porthos’s features. “He’ll lie to us about where he ate dinner and where he slept, who gave him an embroidered handkerchief, and by what means he enters the palace late at night, but I submit to you that this he would not lie about. I’ve thought about it myself, because I, myself, suspected it, until I realized that if he had truly killed her, he would be putting us in danger by asking us to help him. And that, I don’t believe Aramis would do. He would only put us in danger if he thought it needed to vindicate his innocence. If he knew himself to be innocent.”
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