the musketeer's seamstress

by Sarah D'almeida

  “Come, Mousqueton,” Porthos said when he’d been relieved by another musketeer, a young man by the name of De Trebouchard.

  Mousqueton, who had been amusing himself nearby, playing dice with the other servants in the shadow of the walls, approached.

  “Come,” Porthos said, heading into the palace—which in this part meant heading into a narrow courtyard that looked much like the paved courtyard of a farmhouse, the place where hay would be baled and horses groomed. “Show me the way to the kitchens.”

  “The kitchens?” Mousqueton asked, catching up with his master. “Can we not go to a tavern? I have some money I won at the dice and I—”

  Porthos shook his head, impatient. “This is not about food, Mousqueton. In a tavern I’m not likely to know what I need to find out about the palace.”

  “About the palace?” Mousqueton asked.

  “Have you become like the Greek nymph that was transformed into an echo, Mousqueton?” Porthos asked, impatient and not a little happy to have remembered the legend which Athos had expounded upon the last time that Porthos had taken it into his head to repeat the ending of every sentence Athos said.

  “But . . .” Mousqueton said, then, with a quick look around, as if to verify they were alone—which they were, in the middle of a deserted and dark courtyard—“Would this have to do with Monsieur Aramis?”

  Porthos nodded. “We must know certain details about the layout of the palace, details that not even its inhabitants are likely to know. To be honest, it is something I need to ask the servants about.”

  Mousqueton moaned like a soul in eternal punishment. “And you think I can . . . help you in this? Because of all the times I got you wine and bread from the kitchen? You think I know the maids?”

  “Well,” Porthos said. “I don’t expect you to know them by name, no. But I do expect that you’ll have some acquaintance with them and that by having you with me, you can provide me with that modicum of introduction that a man needs before getting down to talking to maids and cooks.”

  Mousqueton only moaned again, while fixing his master with a look of such terror that if Porthos hadn’t known the wretch he would think him in danger of being sent to the gallows. “Come, Mousqueton, what is the problem?” Porthos asked, as an idea occurred to him. “Have you romanced one of the wenches and are you afraid she might catch you in the bonds of matrimony?”

  Mousqueton shook his head. “Would that it were,” he said. “But the truth is . . .” He took a deep breath. “Look, the palace kitchens are haunted by the servants of musketeers. Servants, and sometimes their masters cluster around the maids and cooks begging for this, asking for that. So do the servants of all the noblemen and women who live in the palace. Hundreds of them. In such a way, that cooks and maids and wenches have become hardened to pleas.”

  “But you bring me wine and bread and meat when I ask.”

  At this, Mousqueton shrugged shoulders that were almost as massive as those of his master, as though to signify that he couldn’t help himself. The gesture took Porthos back to the day he had met his servant—then graced with the incongruously peaceful name of Boniface.

  Porthos himself was then a young rural nobleman newly arrived in Paris, still dazzled by the wonders of the city. He’d just received his first pay, after having worked for a week teaching fencing in the school of a well known master. He was headed, he remembered, towards a tailor shop, whose velvets and silks he’d coveted every day when he passed its door.

  And suddenly, in what was a very modest street, he’d felt a hand snake into his doublet, making unerring way to the coin pouch tucked within.

  Porthos was, after all, a fencing master. He’d grabbed at the wrist before the miscreant had a chance to withdraw it.

  And found himself holding on to the skinny arm of a street rat, a child living by his wits in the rough and tumble poor streets of Paris. Boniface. Who, upon confessing that he hadn’t eaten in some days and that he didn’t have either father or mother, nor even a brother to look after him, had got rechristened Mousqueton and enlisted in Porthos’s service.

  That first fistful of coin that was supposed to buy Porthos the first fashionable clothing of his life had gone to feed the yawning chasm of Mousqueton’s hunger. But Porthos had got more money—and clothing—along the way, and Mousqueton himself had grown to be almost as tall and strong as his master.

  And yet that helpless shrug was so much like the one Porthos had seen in the erstwhile street waif that it must perforce have the same meaning. “Mousqueton,” Porthos hissed it as a stage whisper. “Have you been stealing?”

  Mousqueton didn’t say a word, but his head hung down in guilt.

  “How can you? And at the royal palace yet?”

  “Oh, as to that, Monsieur, it’s what every servant does who wants to get something extra for his master. I’ve even seen the king’s valet himself filch a bit of meat while the maids’ backs are turned. Otherwise, there is endless application and begging at various self-proclaimed authorities, before one is allowed a morsel of bread.”

  “Has anyone seen you?”

  Mousqueton shrugged. “Since I still have my head on my shoulders, and my neck hasn’t been broken by a rope, you can assume I was not seen. On the other hand you could say that the maids . . . suspect.”

  “I see,” Porthos said. Internally he reasoned that although it was theft, it was no more than the kitchen staff deserved, for making it difficult for servants to get food for their masters. “Very well. Then you must tell me how to go to the kitchens from here and I shall attempt to find my way myself. Since what I’m looking for is not food . . .”

  Mousqueton pointed to the left, “As to that, you take that corridor there, and push the door at the end. You’ll come out at the top of the stairs, looking down on the kitchen. It is the best way to go in, at least when I go to filch something, as that door is rarely used and is in a dark area of the kitchen.”

  “The devil. How big are these kitchens, then?” Mousqueton only grinned, a sly grin. “You’ll see,” he said.

  Porthos followed the servant’s directions, his mind mulling over how big the kitchen could be. The royal palace was huge, this Porthos knew, housing more people than lived in his own native town. And even if some of those noblemen came with retinues, including servants and cooks, very few were assigned the sort of space in which they could afford to cook more than the occasional egg over a spirit lamp.

  Still nothing prepared him for what he saw at the end of his journey down a tangle of corridors, each darker than the other, ending in an unpromising hallway with no windows and only one door. The walls of the hallway were brick and had some sort of fungus growing on them, the grey black type that grows in dark, humid places. The area smelled musty and slightly as though gentlemen had relieved themselves there who had given up on finding their way out in time.

  Thinking that Mousqueton had played a mean joke on him, Porthos grasped the handle of the door—a solid and well fitted oak affair—turned it, and . . .

  His senses were assaulted from every direction. He stood at the top of a short flight of stairs, in the darker area of the kitchen, facing . . . Pandemonium.

  Smells of roasts of all sort, a medley of spices greater than any he’d ever experienced in conjunction, assaulted Porthos’s nose, mingled—alas—with the smell of sweat, of unwashed clothing, of vegetables gone seriously to the wrong. His gaze meanwhile took in a profusion of hearths, each blazing at a different intensity and upon which a different variety of beast was roasting. Though it was Friday, there were all manner of fowl and deer and pigs. Porthos thought that churchmen must have pronounced a dispensation on abstinence for the court, as they routinely did.

  Between heat and cold, the smell of food, and the smell—and vision—of all the sweaty, crowded people laboring over hearths and tables, Porthos did not know if he was in heaven or in hell.

  Before he could reason it out, though, a very fat cook, her sleeves rolled up to display ca
paciously muscled arms, looked up from her turning of the spit to see him on his step. “You,” she said. “Monsieur Musketeer. What do you mean by sneaking into my kitchen?”

  A Musketeer’s Misgivings; Where Memory Intrudes Upon Life; D’Artagnan’s Innocence

  “I’M not sure I agree with your need to go on this travel,” Monsieur de Treville told Athos and D’Artagnan, who stood before his desk. A small man, with the olive complexion, dark hair and dark eyes that matched D’Artagnan’s, he had closed the door when Athos and D’Artagnan had come in, and now looked gravely at both of them, attired in their traveling clothes.

  Had it been anyone else to question his decision, Athos would have thrown his head back and said that he made his own choices. However, this was the captain, Monsieur de Treville, the man that Athos reverenced the most in the whole world. And besides, Athos and D’Artagnan needed to borrow Monsieur de Treville’s horses for the job, something that entitled the captain to some explanation at least. “I understand that you think it is unlikely that the duke de Dreux is to blame for his wife’s death. I confess that I find it unlikely too. However, I must eliminate the possibility before we look at other, even more far-fetched possibilities.”

  “Athos,” Monsieur de Treville said.

  He became uncomfortably aware that Monsieur de Treville’s gaze was fixed evaluatingly on his own eyes.

  “Athos, you can’t mean to say you don’t know who killed the Duchess de Dreux. Much as I prize Aramis as a fighter and I—”

  “Monsieur,” Athos said, snapping to attention though the movement hurt him. “Please don’t say it. You can’t mean it.”

  Monsieur de Treville stopped midsentence and looked up at Athos, who was taller than him by a good head. “I can’t?” he asked, faltering.

  “No, Monsieur. Because you sent a purse of money, an advance on Aramis’s wages as a musketeer, and if you thought he was a murderer, you’d never have provided it and certainly never have expected him to come back to your service and earn those wages.”

  “But . . .” Monsieur de Treville sighed. “The money I sent was my own, though I said it was an advance so that Aramis would accept it. My good Athos, I understand your loyalty and your care for your friend. I understand, even, that you might not wish to find him guilty. I would not want to think that, either, at least if I had any choice but to think that. But Athos . . . He was alone with the woman, in her room. The door was locked. As far as anyone can tell—and you might know more about it than I—he escaped sure capture by jumping from the balcony onto a nearby tree, then scaling an almost smooth wall. How could anyone else have done the reverse pathway, Athos? And all in a way that Aramis didn’t notice? No, my good friend. We must face it that Aramis killed his lover.”

  Athos was speechless. He had, it is true, entertained such suspicions himself from the beginning. But hearing them voiced back at him, in his captain’s sensible tones, made everything that was noble and loyal in him rebel at the thought. “And thinking this . . .” He said slowly. “You’d still send Aramis out of town to safety.”

  Monsieur de Treville shrugged. “Why should the corps be tainted or suffer by having one of its members executed as a murderer?” he asked. “Besides, this much I know. If Aramis chose to murder the woman, he must have had some great reason. He wouldn’t do it in a mere moment of passion.” Monsieur de Treville was looking intently at Athos.

  Since the captain was one of the very few people in the world who knew Athos’s true history, it made the musketeer wish to squirm. But Athos was nothing if not self-disciplined. He managed to nod. “No,” he said. “If Aramis had killed the woman it would have been for some reason having to do with court and intrigue. Perhaps because he had found her guilty of conspiracy.”

  “See?” Monsieur de Treville said, and smiled a tight smile that nonetheless managed to convey the pleasure of a teacher whose favorite pupil has just made a brilliant deduction. “And if Aramis killed the woman for a reason, there will be a proof of it and, in time, a rehabilitation. If Aramis is out of town, perhaps doing his novitiate in some isolated monastery, he can always leave it and come back to the corps when his vindication occurs. While if he had been beheaded or hung by the neck till dead, it would be impossible to give him back what had been taken.”

  Athos nodded, managing to keep his face impassive. Monsieur de Treville wouldn’t be rebuking Athos. Though he was an intelligent and even cunning man, his beliefs and morals had been informed by a strict and rule-bound upbringing. It would never occur to him that Athos—or, as he was then, the Count de la Fere might not have the right to execute a wife who had lied to him about her past. Much less that the Count might not have the right to execute a woman branded with the fleur-de-lis. It wasn’t for him to know Athos’s doubtful, sleepless nights when only the bottle could make him forget Charlotte, make him stop seeing her specter by his bed, looking at him with those soft and sweet blue eyes.

  “But, captain,” Athos said. “What if Aramis isn’t guilty? Yes, I know the circumstance seems to speak against him, but let’s suppose that a subtle and cunning enemy, or the woman’s long suffering husband, even, arranged her demise? Then proof of her involvement in intrigues will never come out because there aren’t any intrigues. And Aramis will never be justified.”

  Monsieur de Treville stared at Athos. “But this is highly unlikely,” he said.

  “Yes, and how many times has the unlikely happened? In this kingdom, as it is, with that man that is almost a dark sorcerer behind the throne . . .” He stopped.

  Monsieur de Treville nodded. He retreated behind his desk, as though talk of that powerful personage brought about a need to interpose a solid object between himself and the world. His desk, such as it was, was a broad, huge table, at which—so far as Athos knew—he never did any writing beyond the occasional order and the even more occasional safe conduct. The unblemished reddish leather surface had a stack of paper to the right and a pen and ink well to the left. And nothing else. But Monsieur de Treville stood behind his desk, and put his hands on it as if it were the physical center of his power.

  “Still, I am loath to part with you for what . . . a week?”

  Athos nodded.

  “With Aramis already gone, if you leave, our guard rosters at the palace will be sorely depleted. Besides, if you must know, two of our musketeers have suffered grievous wounds in duels defending Aramis’s honor. I don’t know how to make up their numbers enough for a guard rotation. You,” he looked at D’Artagnan. “Has my brother-in-law, des Essarts, consented to part with you with no complaint?”

  D’Artagnan shrugged. “He said he would let me go, Monsieur, if you let Athos go.”

  Athos could see the captain’s mouth shaping itself to say no, could tell by the glint of his eyes, by the frown that brought his eyebrows low over his dark eyes, that Monsieur de Treville had already made up his mind that Aramis was guilty and, as such, found the idea of trying to save Aramis ridiculous.

  Much as Athos despised the idea of admitting weakness, there was but one gambit for him to play now. Not that he, himself, was convinced of Aramis’s innocence. But he was sure that Aramis, one of his oldest friends who had seen him through countless scrapes, deserved, at the very least, the benefit of the doubt. “There is something else,” he said, just as Monsieur de Treville opened his mouth to deny them their leave.

  And, as the captain turned to look on him, Athos sighed, still despising himself for what he had to say. “I received a wound on my arm, in duel over access to Aramis’s lodgings. If I should stay in town, others will challenge me. I doubt I can fend off the next one, in this condition. A week from now, though, I should be able again.”

  Monsieur de Treville’s eyes widened. “Wounded?” he said. “May I see the wound?”

  Athos recoiled, feeling his heart contract and blood flee his head, as if he’d been slapped. “Do you doubt me, sir?” he asked, his hand going to his sword immediately.

  Monsieur de Treville m
ight be the captain, and in this office Athos had heard lectures and rebukes that could skin an elephant without making any move to avenge his injured honor. But this was too much. To doubt Athos when he’d gone so far as to admit to a weakness . . .

  But Monsieur de Treville shook his head. “My dear Athos, it would never cross my mind to doubt you on anything you stated. But if you’re admitting to the wound, it must be grievous indeed, and I’m not sure I should let you leave without the services of my surgeon.”

  Athos relaxed, letting his hand fall from the sword, as though it had never been there. “There is no need,” he said, drawing himself up. “I was seriously wounded and lost a great deal of blood. But D’Artagnan has the recipe for a miraculous salve, which he consented to let me use. He tells me it shall be healed in three days. I’m not sure it will be that fast, as it had reached bone. But I do believe it will heal by the time we return.”

  Monsieur de Treville evaluated both men with a weary eye, then sighed. “I see I cannot dissuade you from this travel into Dreux. Very well.” He sat down, reached for his pile of papers and wrote rapidly, “This is in case anyone tries to stop you. Let it be known you’re on a mission for the King’s musketeers.”

  “It is hardly likely someone will try to stop us,” Athos said.

  But Monsieur de Treville only cocked his head to one side. “Only if Aramis is truly guilty and there is no conspiracy to account for it. Otherwise, Athos, the murderer will know that his friends will try to clear his name. And he will try to stop the friends.” He shrugged. “Since we don’t know who the murderer is, we will not know what lengths he’ll go to just to put a stop to yours and D’Artagnan’s journey. And we have to fear that he has great means indeed and will go to great lengths.”