Dying by the Sword

by Sarah D'almeida

  Athos’s observant eyes looked towards his larger friend. “And you, Porthos?”

  “Well…” Porthos took a deep breath. “I remembered to take a candle, but I totally forgot to procure some melons.”

  Aramis snorted. “Porthos! Melons are not in season, and what can your lack of melons have to do with your making a racket in the armorer’s? What were you even doing in the armorer’s?”

  “Well… I’d heard that Mousqueton had lost consciousness after being hit a glancing blow by a hammer that fell from the high rack over the forge.”

  “And you realized, as I did,” Athos said, “that you had been in that shop a lot of times, that you knew the ceiling was very high, and that you didn’t remember seeing any hammers hanging from the rack.” He looked at Porthos with something approaching benevolence. “But with your turn of mind, you needed, of course, to go and test the idea.”

  “Well… I didn’t drop hammers on my own head.”

  Aramis, to D’Artagnan’s side, rolled his eyes. “Something for which we should be very grateful indeed. But why did you need to make noise?”

  Porthos shrugged and Athos shook his head, and asked him, “Did any of the swords fall? Or the hammer if you managed to hang it there?”

  Porthos looked relieved and shook his head, and Athos nodded. “And that brings us to you, Aramis. You went to the palace and you spoke to Hermengarde, which brings us to…”

  “She said she… she had decided to marry Mousqueton,” he said, lamely, not wishing to discuss Hermengarde’s possible impending motherhood with the servants present.

  “Hermengarde is with child, sir,” Grimaud said, and gave Athos a sideways glance. “Or at least Mousqueton believed so and believed the child was his.”

  D’Artagnan, by the corner of his eye, saw Porthos pale and sit down. “With child?” he said. “This too, Mousqueton did not tell me.”

  “He would not,” Grimaud said, and shook his head. “Not until he had made up his mind what to do and worked the plan over with Hermengarde, which he had just done when…” He shrugged. “You see, they’ve all of them”-he looked at Planchet and Bazin in a corner of the kitchen-“gotten used to coming to me for advice. Because… because I am older, and I have raised children.”

  Athos nodded at this. “So he came to you for advice?” “Certainly, when he had his letter. And he wanted to know what I thought and how Monsieur Porthos would accept it if Mousqueton were to get married.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “That Monsieur Porthos was the kindest of all masters, and that he was not likely to take it amiss if Mousqueton married, provided between the two of them they found some way to support themselves and their child. And Mousqueton, you know, sir, the last thing he wanted was for his lover to be forced to give up their child or to leave him at the door of some church, to be raised out of charity.”

  “No,” Porthos said. “That’s how Mousqueton himself was raised, and I would have guessed that he would endure any number of trials to assure that his child didn’t suffer a similar childhood. But… How is Hermengarde taking all this?”

  “I told her,” Aramis said, his shoulders squared, his face resolute, “that we would do all we could to ensure Mousqueton’s freedom.”

  D’Artagnan noted a look from Athos. “And what in this made you believe you were the target of this attack? What could possibly have crossed your mind to lead you to think-”

  Aramis shook his head. “You know I have a new… friend.”

  “If by that you mean a new seamstress, or a new niece of your theology professor, or whatever you’re calling it these days, yes, I am well aware of that,” Athos said, drily. “Else how to explain the disturbing profusion of perfumed note paper arriving at all hours.”

  By the corner of his eye, D’Artagnan watched Bazin cross himself. Since he knew what Aramis’s servant, whose greatest ambition in life was to become a lay brother in whatever order his master chose to serve, thought of his master’s carnality, it was a confirmation of Athos’s guess.

  Aramis only nodded. “Well… I have… something of that nature.” He stopped, suddenly, and looked around, with a worried eye. “Can we speak of this in private?”

  “In the kitchen?” Athos said. “Not likely. And surely you’re not suggesting you don’t trust our servants. We are, after all, fighting for the life of their friend.”

  “Yes, that is all very well,” Aramis said. “And I am sure each and every one of them is more than willing to do what must be done for our brave Mousqueton. However…” He paused, and hesitated. “There are dangers attendant to this situation, dangers, shall we say, that do not proceed from the murder and do not devolve upon Mousqueton alone.”

  Perhaps it was, D’Artagnan thought, the return of Aramis’s habitual roundabout manner of speech that made Athos’s lips go taut once more. But D’Artagnan knew this could not be allowed. “I believe,” he said, in a tired tone, “what Aramis means is that there is some danger attaching to his seamstress. I’m not going to speculate, but it could be anything, from an irate husband to… something more serious. We know how high Aramis-who is, after all, so punctilious about his clothes-looks for a seamstress who can sew a straight seam, do we not? Is it so strange that he would not wish to speak of it in front of our servants, not because he doesn’t trust them, but because he believes the knowledge could bring danger to them?”

  Exhausted by his long speech, he leaned back against the edge of the table, in time to see a grateful smile from Aramis. “Thank you, D’Artagnan,” Aramis said, in a voice that revealed D’Artagnan was not by any means the only one to notice that Athos was more tightly wound than normal. “You have, as usual, made light in the dark.”

  D’Artagnan bowed slightly, but Athos was frowning. “Well, then let us adjourn upstairs, to my sitting room, to discuss the matter. I…” He frowned more intensely, as though the admission were being torn from him reluctantly. “I too have something that I should discuss and which is perhaps too serious to allow innocents to be involved in.”

  “Planchet, my shirt,” D’Artagnan said again, imperiously. The boy had been holding his shirt the whole while, looking at it with an expression of utter dismay on his freckled face.

  “It’s all over blood, sir,” Planchet said, lifting the offending garment. “As is your doublet.”

  “Grimaud,” Athos said, “if you would be so kind as to help Monsieur D’Artagnan to my chamber, and offer him any of my shirts or doublets he would care to take.”

  D’Artagnan felt a sudden relief, for he had been afraid they’d need to send Planchet home for replacement clothes and he, himself, was starting to think that there was some danger involved in their going out of doors alone. As far as he could determine, each of the three of them had assumed he was the culprit in the fracas in the palace gardens. And Athos, himself, seemed to have some secret.

  He allowed Grimaud to lead him out of the kitchen and help him up the stairs. Grimaud assisted him with small movements, a touch on the elbow, a support of the arm-all without seeming to, D’Artagnan noted and wondered how many times Grimaud had escorted his drunken and querulous master this way. And how many times he must have lead Athos up these stairs when Athos was far more wounded than D’Artagnan was now.

  All of them, D’Artagnan knew, worried about Athos. Aramis might be the only one who worried for his soul, but Porthos and D’Artagnan spent plenty of time musing on the state of his body. As, doubtless, did the devoted and absolutely loyal Grimaud, who now led D’Artagnan to a room far better appointed than should have been expected of any musketeer living in Paris. Most of the furnishings there declared as loudly as words that they’d been brought back from Athos’s ancestral domains.

  Grimaud extracted a linen shirt-much finer than anything D’Artagnan had ever worn-and an old-fashioned and worn doublet from one of the clothing presses, and clucked at something within the press. D’Artagnan, who had heard the sound of glass or ceramic just before that
, looked at Grimaud, and their gazes met in perfect understanding.

  As Grimaud helped D’Artagnan into the shirt-a little long, but not much larger than D’Artagnan’s own, or at least not large enough to look ridiculous, since D’Artagnan was much more sturdily built than the muscular but spare to thinness Athos-D’Artagnan said, “Has… has your master been suffering a great deal from his old trouble?”

  Grimaud sighed. “Not so much, sir. Now and again though the… since you joined their group, the troubles of a different sort have kept him from brooding on his own quite so much as he used to. And with Monsieur le Comte, you know, it is memories and… and the thought of what might have been that brings his trouble about.”

  “You mean that having found himself faced with murders has been good for my friend?”

  Grimaud inclined his head. “I’ve thought so. There is nothing, you know, like a little intrigue and a lot of danger in the present to keep the past at bay. Only today, when he came in, Monsieur D’Artagnan, I will confess that I looked into his eyes and I thought…”

  “You thought?”

  “I thought he looked as though he’d seen a ghost.”

  Where Aramis Talks of Conspiracy and Athos Talks of Ghosts; The Honor of a Nobleman

  “DID you see a ghost?” D’Artagnan asked, as he came into the salon where his friends had been speaking desultorily, while waiting for him.

  Athos looked at him, surprised. The boy was wearing clean clothes-Athos’s, but they looked, Athos thought, better on the Gascon. And he looked as if he was just slightly weakened. Perhaps a little dizzy from the medicinal application of brandy, but he wasn’t stumbling near enough to allow him to speak foolishness.

  And yet, when Athos looked up at him, he wondered if it was foolishness. Instead of ridiculing D’Artagnan, he shrugged and said, “Where did you come by that notion?”

  “Grimaud,” D’Artagnan said, simply, as he settled himself into a chair, “said that you looked as though you’d seen a ghost.”

  Athos tilted his head to the side, examining the Gascon. It had been sometime in the last few minutes, while Aramis had been coy about his seamstress and Porthos had made the usual mess out of his attempts at explaining his actions, that Athos had realized he would have to tell them what he had seen, as well as what he had done.

  He wasn’t sure which of his pieces of news would cause the most uproar amid his friends-the sudden resurrection of a long-dead countess, or the clear-eyed way in which Athos had walked into the Cardinal’s trap, rather than allow it to close on his neck when he least expected it.

  He sighed deeply. “I have, in a way,” he said. “Save that I believe a ghost would have disconcerted me less. But first, I’d like to know what Aramis has to say about…”

  “The attack?” Aramis said. He had sat himself down on one of the more elaborate armchairs, immediately beside Athos, probably, Athos thought, because he didn’t want Athos looking directly at him as he questioned him. “As I said, all of you know about my… friend.”

  “Seamstress,” Athos said, both amused and confused that Aramis was not using the term he usually used.

  Aramis shrugged. He’d pulled a handkerchief from within his sleeve, and was examining its lace edging with utter care. “She… is a lady of the highest nobility and she resides in the palace.”

  “I would expect nothing less,” Athos said.

  Again Aramis shrugged, when in the past he would have looked either very gratified or somewhat upset when they penetrated the meaning of his words. He looked up at Athos, sidewise, and his green eyes seemed full of worry. “Well, after I spoke to Hermengarde, I went to my friend’s lodgings. I… well… for various reasons I was in need of a friend and she was the nearest.”

  Athos nodded and forebore to say anything. He was fairly sure the reason was that Aramis had had to walk along certain hallways which awakened memories of his dead lover, Violette. He’d noticed that when the four of them had to go to the royal palace for any reason, Aramis avoided that area of the palace like the plague. And, in fact, since the most common reason they had to go to the palace was to stand guard there, he did his best not to go inside at all, but to take a post outside, near the entrance, and stay there.

  “Well, while I was in her room we… argued. It is possible… That is… I angered her, and she is a woman of strong passions. I would not swear that she did not send assassins after me. Though I wouldn’t believe it likely. But I…” He half rose and sat himself again, and gave Athos a look so full of piteous protest that it was plain he very much wished himself elsewhere, and he very much wished not to have to go on with his revelations.

  Athos said nothing, just continued looking his enquiry at his blond friend. If Aramis thought he could escape telling what worried him, he did not know what Athos, himself, would have to reveal.

  Aramis sighed, heavily, as though realizing no one would facilitate his escape. “As I was leaving her room,” he said, “I saw on a table, a letter, written and sealed to someone…” He took a deep breath. “Enfin, to Caesar, the duke of Vendôme, the half-brother of the King.” As though he’d spent all his speech braving himself for this, he said, “I was going to simply show you her handkerchief, but I gave it to Hermengarde to dry her tears, and then I ruined one I thought was mine on D’Artagnan’s arm, in the palace. Now I find I still have mine, and am at a loss to find which handkerchief I did ruin.” He shrugged.

  “Well, where did it come from?” Porthos asked.

  Aramis shrugged again. “I found it on the ground at my feet, in such a position that I thought it could only have dropped out of my sleeve, and since it was clean, I used it to tourniquet D’Artagnan’s arm.”

  “It’s in the kitchen,” D’Artagnan said, starting to rise. “Perhaps we should get it, before it is fed into the fire?”

  Porthos, seated beside the youth, put a massive hand on his shoulder. “I’ll go, my friend. It is not likely I’ll understand this intrigue of court ladies and handkerchiefs.”

  Though Athos thought this was the absolute truth, he said nothing else, nor did any of them, until Porthos galloped back up the stairs, a square of blood-soaked linen and lace in his hand. He handed it to Aramis. “It is most certainly not yours, though it might very well be the handkerchief of your seamstress. In which case, I’d very much like to know why you were carrying three handkerchiefs along on your sleeve.”

  “He uses them as safe conducts,” D’Artagnan said, sounding somewhere between tired and amused.

  “Safe conducts to three ladies?” Porthos said. And added fervently, “Sometimes, Aramis, I get the sense that you wish to sleep with every woman in France.”

  And Aramis, looking down at the handkerchief with an expression of the greatest horror, said, absently, “I do. Twice.” And as he said it, he passed the handkerchief to Athos, allowing him to see the embroidered initials in the corner, MAR.

  “Marie Michon?” Athos asked, at the same time that Porthos, having reached some sort of conclusion from what Aramis had said, exclaimed in a sullen tone, “If you so much as look at Athenais…”

  Athos’s look at Aramis was quick enough to capture the expression of horror on his face. Madame Athenais Coquenard was Porthos’s lover of some years now. She was also-though born to minor nobility-the wife of an aged accountant, and well past thirty. On all these counts, she was disqualified from the pool of women that interested Aramis. On the other hand, it was hard to deny that she was indeed one of the women of France and that Aramis had, therefore, just declared his intention of sleeping with her. Twice. Athos would have laughed, were it not for the fact that he had a strong feeling if the girl wanted Aramis-or in fact, himself-he would find himself in her bed before he could think twice.

  Aramis, realizing where his words had led him, turned to Porthos. “Oh, be still, Porthos. I was only… That is… You know that Athenais is not a woman.” And, as Porthos bristled at this, rapidly he added. “She is something far beyond woman, something that, to
own the truth, terrifies me a little. I’m afraid should I pursue any intimacy with her, she would suggest I wear a green dress.” [6]

  Porthos didn’t smile. He nodded, thoughtfully. “Well,” he said. “She scares me a little too, but the thing is that…” He shrugged. “Some of us like to know we are courting a woman who could, if needed, take us in combat. Though perhaps not in fair combat,” he added, even more thoughtfully. “I’m sure Athenais is not an amazon.”

  Aramis nodded, but turned towards Athos. “Yes, Marie Michon. We’ve been… I think… using each other for some months now. But you know she is… that is, there is no intrigue, in the palace, in which she does not have her dainty hands. Which leads me to thinking of what Monsieur de Treville said.” He shrugged, again. “It is entirely possible I am wrong,” he said. “It is entirely possible that the letter concerned private matters. The lady is, as we all know, as much involved in affairs as she is in intrigues.”

  “Yes, this is quite possible,” Athos said. “And yet…” He got up. He would have to tell them his story, and he hesitated. He would have to tell them everything, including the detailed story of why he’d left his domains to become a musketeer. He’d more or less told it to them before, in bits and pieces and, sometimes, he was sure they knew much more than they showed. But he had never explained to them, exactly, what he’d felt… What he still felt for Charlotte.

  “Is Marie Michon the nom de guerre of the Duchess de Chevreuse?” Porthos asked.

  “What?” Aramis said. “Yes, but you are being insufferably blunt. You must know I was avoiding pronouncing her name.”

  “Why? Is it like a magical invocation? Of the sort we’re not supposed to do? You said she was as fond of affairs as of intrigues, and you must know this means you might as well have pronounced her name, because we are not so stupid as not to know that all of the court speaks of both of these characteristics of the lady.”