the musketeer's seamstress

by Sarah D'almeida

  He settled on amused. It probably never occurred to Raoul—considering how both of them had been brought up—that Athos might have got used to dressing and undressing without the constant presence of a valet.

  Not that Grimaud couldn’t serve his turn, and quite honorably too, as a gentleman’s valet when the need arose. The excellent Grimaud was most accomplished in all domestic arts, having been trained in the domains of la Fere and brought up to do all the jobs in turn, as he aged. However, since Athos was asking him to be housekeeper, cook and whatever else chanced to need doing in the house, including running messages when Athos required it, Athos did not think it was fair to also ask him to be his valet.

  And so, for the last five years, Athos had dressed himself. But he could not turn away the valet Raoul had sent, a shy young man probably just recently trained. If he had, Raoul might take it amiss, or think that he had, somehow, offended Athos.

  So Athos endured the young man’s presence and his help as he washed and changed into the slightly less wrinkled clothing he had packed.

  He was glad that Raoul’s personal quirks meant the servants were used to noblemen who went about dressed like farmers. For the first time ever, in these surroundings which were close to the surroundings in which he’d grown up, Athos was aware of how shabby he’d allowed his wardrobe and his appearance to become.

  The valet did not sneer at his mended clothes, nor at the worn through velvet of his old-fashioned doublet, but Athos still felt as if he had. And so, as soon as his doublet was laced, he thanked the young man and hurried out of the room and next door, to D’Artagnan’s.

  A knock on the door brought D’Artagnan’s invitation to enter.

  Athos opened the door. D’Artagnan also had changed, this time into his guard’s uniform, probably because it was the newest clothing he owned.

  Athos impressed upon him the reasons and need for secrecy and then why he thought that Raoul hadn’t heard of his Duchess’s death.

  The young man stood by the window, with his back turned, and did not turn around to greet Athos. Instead he motioned for Athos to approach.

  “There is a rider come,” D’Artagnan said. “Express. He came down the lane, horse flying, both of them, horse and rider, foaming—I swear. Now the servants are taking the horse away, see there . . .” D’Artagnan pointed at two liveried servants leading away a horse that had doubtlessly started his journey black but was now greyish red with dust.

  “I think,” D’Artagnan said. “That our host has received news of his wife’s death.”

  Athos nodded. “Perhaps, my friend,” he said. “We should go downstairs and see how Raoul takes the revelation. A lot more can be discovered from a word or a look in a moment when one believes himself unobserved. Or at least not looked upon suspiciously.”

  D’Artagnan nodded. Together they left the room and hurried down the stairs. Athos imagined that his friend must already have read the missive or had the message relayed to him.

  From his memory of the house and of Raoul’s habits, Athos reasoned that at this time of day his friend would either be at the entrance hall—to receive the visitor—or else in the study at the back of the house, where he worked on the papers and bills for the estate. It was only when the heat of the day abated that Raoul would ride through the vineyards and fields to inspect the day’s work.

  But straight down the flight of stairs, they came upon Raoul, standing in the hall. He held a crumpled paper in his hand, and his mouth had dropped open in wonder.

  As he heard Athos and D’Artagnan’s steps, he turned to look up the stairs. “Alexandre. I’ve just had the most extraordinary news.” He shook the paper. “It says my wife died in Paris. Did you come from Paris? Have you heard anything about it?”

  Athos nodded, but said nothing, trying to spur his old friend into continuing. Well did he remember from childhood Raoul’s voluble speech, his easy, flowing talk. If that had changed, then Athos would know that Raoul too, like him, had found reasons to change his soul and his inner self.

  “How did she die?” he asked. “This tells me nothing save that she was found dead in her room and that they are even now trying to find the culprit.” He paused, and his eyes widened, as though a monstrous thought, creeping through his mind, caused them to widen in shock. “The culprit? It must have been an accident. They can’t mean that she was murdered?”

  If Raoul was pretending, Athos thought, then he was a better actor than those that graced the Paris stage. He found himself speechless, as the battered letter was waved in his face. “What is this, Alexandre? What happened?”

  Athos shrugged. “I know no more than that,” he said. It wasn’t strictly true, but it was true in a way. He knew they were trying to apprehend Aramis and punish him, and since Aramis was the person, whoever had written that letter—the Cardinal?—meant by culprit, then Athos knew exactly what they knew and no more.

  Raoul stared at him a while, and Athos was not sure if he read disapproval or suspicion in his old friend’s eyes. Then suddenly Raoul’s gaze changed. It softened, it . . . lit up, with gratitude or kindness or whatever other soft feelings made a man’s eyes become suddenly gentle and lively with emotion.

  Blinking, the duke thrust the letter at the hand of the courier who’d been standing by, waiting, watching. He turned to Athos, both hands extended. “My friend,” he said. “You came to visit me because you knew. I wondered why you’d come after so many years and after all had reported you dead. Now I know. You thought I would feel pain and you came to soften it for me.” He grasped Athos’s cold hands in his and squeezed them.

  It had been a long time since any man had greeted Athos with such effusiveness, such lack of reserve. Raoul’s clear gratitude reproached his old friend who’d come to see if Raoul had murder on his mind and guilt on his conscience.

  “You didn’t need to worry, Alexandre,” Raoul said. He squeezed Athos hands hard, again. “You see, my marriage was no marriage. Only my father’s negotiations, the King’s plans. It meant nothing, save that I got her dowry to spend and she came to France with her best friend.” He shook his head. “I didn’t wish the silly thing ill, mind you. I haven’t seen her since we were both barely more than children, pronouncing our vows amid the pomp attending the royal wedding, so much more important than ours. She seemed a nice enough creature, at least for men who like them garrulous and ever ready with wit or dance or some other distraction. But I didn’t love her.” He squeezed Athos hands a final time and then let go. “So you see, you must not waste your sympathy on me, old friend.” Suddenly he smiled. “Though for all that, I am glad you came to visit me. I’ve missed you terribly, Alexandre. You were my only childhood friend.”

  With that he turned to the messenger. “You must go to the kitchen. They will give you food and wine, and tell them I instructed them to arrange for lodging for you. They are to attend to you and make you comfortable, and you must rest with us a couple of days before you head back to the capital.”

  The man bowed and murmured, “Your grace,” before— obeying the Duke’s gesture—heading down the cool corridor that led to the back of the house. Then he turned to them again. “You must come with me, Alexandre, and your friend too. I have some new irrigation systems I would love to show you. I think the afternoon is cool enough now.”

  Speaking like that, he led Athos and D’Artagnan out and to the stables at the back. As Athos remembered from the time of Raoul’s father, the stables were clean, spacious and stocked with some of the best animals in France. Perhaps the best animals in Europe.

  A sleek black animal with a white star upon the forehead was presented for Athos inspection. “I think you’ll like this one,” Raoul said. “He is the grandson of your Samson. Do you still have Samson, Alexandre?”

  Athos shook his head, as his heart tightened in his chest. He’d left his favorite horse—so distinctively his—behind, knowing that his lodgings and arrangements in Paris wouldn’t be conducive to keeping Samson in the style t
o which the horse was accustomed. Athos knew—he kept in touch with his domain enough to know—that his manager, a distant second cousin, treated the horse well. But not a day went by that Athos didn’t miss his four-hoofed friend.

  He ran his head down the sleek flank of the black horse, aware that Raoul was looking curiously at him, waiting for an explanation. But Athos could not explain.

  “Do you remember the area at the back, near the forest,” Raoul asked. “Where the crops always failed and which my father just kept as grass and where rabbits multiplied? We channeled water from the lake through a system of baffles, to move it uphill. Quite ingenious and very much like something you and I discussed on the last letter we exchanged. Let me show it to you. I think it would work quite well for the fallow area in La Fere, at the farm.”

  They mounted and Raoul led them to see the drains, which were, indeed, a miracle of ingenuity and engineering which, in its scale, rivaled the pyramids.

  And while Raoul extolled the virtues of this land, now planted with wheat, and talked to Athos of all the improvements he’d done on his land, and how he’d changed the arrangement of his vineyards so that they now were less likely to get the blight or the rust, Athos wondered if Raoul had even cared about his wife enough to have her killed.

  Impossible, he thought. Worse than impossible.

  Of Sons and Heirs; Where Love Is Not Guilt; An Inconclusive Leave Taking

  “IS he your son?” Raoul asked, jerking his head towards D’Artagnan who had fallen asleep slumped on an arm chair, the book he’d been holding fallen from his fingers onto the floor.

  Athos, sitting in front of the fireplace, across a table set up with a chessboard, started and looked at his friend on the other side with utter surprise, before he managed to discipline himself.

  Raoul grinned. “Come, come, Alexandre. Did I penetrate your secret? Did you abandon your domain, your family, your honor to live with some Spanish beauty who gave you this fine son?”

  His surprise past, Athos smiled. “No, Raoul. Though I wish it were true. D’Artagnan is a son I could be proud of. A fine sword hand, an honorable youth who will, I think, grow to be an admirable and honorable man.”

  “What—Is it too much if I ask where you’ve been and in what circumstances that you arrive here with such a companion?” Raoul looked over at D’Artagnan and smiled. “I believe the young man is all you say. You call him a friend, and I’ve never heard you misuse that term nor can I imagine Alexandre, Count de la Fere, bestowing his esteem on anyone less than admirable. But he’s obviously a Gascon and, if you pardon me saying so, as far from you in class as he is in age. How can you have met him? How can such a friendship be forged that you asked him to come with you on an arduous journey?”

  Athos evaluated his options, telling the truth or not, the same way he evaluated the game upon the board. He could lie to Raoul, but what did it matter? No nobleman—not unless he hated the other or worked directly for the Cardinal— would denounce another nobleman. And Raoul, whatever Raoul might have done to his wife, would never betray his oldest friend. Athos felt sure of it, just as he felt sure that even were he to prove that Raoul was a murderer he wouldn’t denounce him. Give him the warning and tell him to flee, maybe. Turn him to the King’s justice, never.

  Athos moved his pawn, slowly. “I have . . . For the last five years, I’ve been living as a King’s musketeer under the command of Monsieur de Treville.”

  “Have you really?” Raoul stopped, his hand upon the bishop. “But why, man? What is the sense in it? If you were that desperate to take arms for—”

  “I’ve been hiding,” Athos said, deliberately. “Under the name of Athos. Only Monsieur de Treville knows my name and the reason I’m hiding, though I suspect my closest friends have reason to guess it.”

  “Your friends? The boy?”

  “Is one of them. The most recent one, though already he has proven his loyalty and his perfect ability to keep secrets and to discover them. The other two hide their identities under the names Aramis and Porthos—though they are all noblemen.”

  Raoul looked baffled, as if he suspected Athos of a sudden brain fever. The flames from the fireplace cast reddish and gold shadows upon his face. “All of you hiding under assumed names? Why?”

  “Aramis was studying to become a seminarian,” Athos said. “Until a gentleman found Aramis reading the lives of saints to his sister. At least that’s what Aramis has sworn to us he was doing. Whether he thought it necessary to illustrate those readings with a demonstration of the attempts against the female saints’ chastity, I hesitate to say.” He let a smile curl across his lips. “But the brother challenged Aramis for a duel and Aramis went to the most accomplished fencing master in Paris for help. When Aramis then killed the man in duel, he realized only a time of hiding and expiating his sin would allow his name to be cleared enough to join a monastery. And since Porthos was the fencing master, and his second in the duel . . . He too had to hide. From their accounts this happened ten years ago, but they keep dueling enough to keep in trouble.”

  “I see,” Raoul said. He moved the bishop, but not in any way that would further his game. “And yourself?”

  Athos sighed. He threw back his head, to clear his face of a stray strand of hair that gotten loose from his ponytail. “I,” he said. “Have never read the lives of saints to anyone.”

  Raoul grinned. He got up and went to a cabinet in the corner. This study was clearly Raoul’s private domain, filled with books, with ancestral, carved cabinets, with swords and daggers and other things that had belonged to the de Dreux men for generations on end. Atop the fireplace, on the wall, hung the portrait of a man whose mobile face looked enough like Raoul’s to be the face of a father or brother. But the attire was that of a gentleman of the time of Francis I.

  Raoul came back with a bottle of wine, two glasses, and a corkscrew. He proceeded to uncork the wine, and pour some for Athos, then some for himself. The wine fell into the glass, red and sparkling like a ruby.

  “It’s from the new vineyards I’ve had put in, since Father died. Taste it and tell me what you think.”

  Athos leaned back and took a sip. Unlike the wine in Paris where the harsh, brass scents of the containers it had been too long kept in shouted at his consciousness like a blaring of discordant voices, this wine fell upon the tongue like a caress. Athos noted flavors of rosemary, a hint of clover, and the unmistakable sweetness of a wine grown on a sunny slope. He rolled the wine upon his tongue, savoring it, then swallowed, feeling as if he’d swallowed a mouthful of sun and summer and the unfettered freedom of his younger days. “Do I detect rosemary and clover?”

  “Yes. I detect them too, at least. And there’s plenty of those about . . .” Raoul took a slow sip. “Don’t you find the body somewhat lacking though?”

  Athos considered. He found himself smiling, one of his rare, fully open smiles. “Raoul, do you know what grade of wine a musketeer normally drinks?”

  Raoul looked at him and arched his eyebrows. “My friend, you never told me how you ended up being a musketeer. You said your friends were lying low till the duels they’d taken part in were forgotten. Did you too fight a duel?”

  Athos shook his head. His pain, his guilt, his remorse, all flooded over him. He needed to talk to someone. He needed to talk to Raoul who’d known him all his life.

  And then, his mind whispered, if Raoul suffered from the like guilt, he would be more likely to speak to Athos about it.

  Still, he hadn’t spoken about it in a long time. And he wasn’t sure he could. He tossed back the rest of his wine and extended his empty glass to Raoul, who filled it, but looked gravely at Athos. “It’s not like you to drink a lot.”

  Athos made a face. “It wasn’t like me,” he said, and cast a look at D’Artagnan, to make sure the young man was still asleep. After they’d solved that murder mystery together, if D’Artagnan didn’t know of Athos’s past, he was a fool.

  But then he didn’t know the de
tails, and it was the details that tortured Athos. “You remember my wife, Charlotte,” he told Raoul.

  Raoul nodded. “I remember being wildly envious of you,” he said. “Not jealous, since I didn’t know the lady, before you married her, nor did I have any interest in her once I met her. But envious, because I had to marry a Spanish noblewoman I’d never seen, while you got to marry your true love. You told me, if I remember, that she was the sister of the priest in your parish? Beautiful and kind like an angel?”

  Athos inhaled sharply, as the memory of those words, the memory of Charlotte’s beautiful face and open, kind eyes came back to him. He didn’t know if it had all been a lie, but he hoped it had. He hoped so, because otherwise he was a true murderer. And now, looking back, he already couldn’t recapture the complacency and certainty with which he had killed her.

  “Yes,” he said, instead. “I thought so at the time.” He looked away from Raoul’s inquisitive gaze, and took a deep draught from his glass. “And then, about three months after my last letter to you, I was out hunting with Charlotte, which, if I remember well, was merely a pretext for our going out into the fields and spending a lot of time alone. Not that she wasn’t a good huntress. She was. Like the goddess Diana herself.” He shook his head. “But we were racing through the fields, and she was turned back, laughing at me. Her horse went under a lower-hanging bow. It caught her, and she was thrown and fell on the ground, insensible. You can imagine my distress.”

  “She died then?” Raoul asked.

  Athos shook his head and swallowed. His voice sounded strangled to his own ears. “Wish that she had.”

  “Alexandre!”

  “No, listen. I jumped from my horse and ran to her. She was breathing, but very shallowly, and she looked pale and I, fool that I was, thought she needed air. So I cut her dress with my hunting knife. And there, upon her white shoulder . . .” He closed his eyes, as if it would help block the sight he still saw every night in his dreams. “Was a fleur-de-lis.”