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Excerpt from
by
Sarah D'Almeida
The impossibility of Murder; Where Aramis questions his sanity; Naked Fugitive
A Hierarchy Of Branches; Running from Fate; Where Fear Gives Not Only Wings, but Ears
A Fugitive In Need; Where Four Show They Think Like One; A Fine Predicament
hg
The Chevalier Renee
D’Herblay – better known for some time now as the musketeer Aramis – was sure
that no one could have murdered his mistress.
A tall, slim man
whose long blond hair and normally elaborate attire made people underestimate
the very solid muscles now on display, Aramis stood naked in the doorway of her
room. His numb hands gripped the wooden frame for support, because his knees
had gone unaccountably lax. He looked out, unbelieving, at the huge bed that
took up a quarter of the bedroom.
The bed was high,
and heavy and massive – a solid construction of Spanish oak that had probably
come in Violette’s dowry when she’d married a French duke. Upon the oak, soft
draperies had been heaped, to make the bed suitable for someone of Violette’s
soft skin and softer habits – there was lace and velvet and a profusion of
pillows of all shapes and sizes.
Aramis knew that
bed better than he knew his own. He had been Violette’s lover for two years
and he’d spent considerably more time in her bed than his. At least time
awake.
He grasped the
doorway hard, for support, and blinked dumbly at the bed. Because on the bed,
Violette lay. Violette who, only minutes ago had been lively, full of fire,
eager for his embraces and inventive with her own.
Now she lay... He
felt sweat start at his hairline, a cold sweat of fear and disbelief. And
blinking didn’t seem to change the scene his eyes showed him.
Because Violette
could not be dead. And yet she lay on the bed, motionless, her normally pink
body gone the color of cheap candle tallow, her mouth open and her eyes staring
fixedly at the canopy of pink satin over her.
Between her
perfect, rounded breasts that his hands and lips knew as well as his eyes did,
an intrusion – an ivory handle – protruded. And around her breasts, there was
blood, dripping into the lace and pillows, the satin and frills.
Aramis swallowed
hard, fighting back nausea and a primal scream of grief that wanted to tear
through his lips.
His mind, still in
control, feverishly went over and over the reasons why this was impossible.
First, he’d left
her alive when he’d gone into the small room next to her room where – out of
modesty or high breeding – she kept the chaise perce used for calls of nature.
Second, he’d taken no more than a moment there. He was sure of it. And he’d
heard no doors close or open anywhere. Third, the door to the room was locked
– had been locked when they first lay down together. He’d turned the large key
himself, heard it click home. Fourth, they were three floors up in the royal
palace, with sentinels and guards all around and thick walls encircling the
whole structure. And there was only one small window in the room – too small
to admit anyone – and a door to a narrow balcony well away from other walls and
trees. The balcony was large enough, only, for two people to stand close together.
The bed was too low to the floor to conceal anyone beneath it.
No one could have
come into the room. And Violette was not the sort to commit suicide. Or to
commit it with a knife to the heart. No woman was. This Aramis -- who knew
many women -- knew. They were more inclined to the poison that would pluck
them from life while they slept. Not that he’d ever had any of his mistresses
die this way. But he’d heard about it. He’d... read.
He struggled to
stand on his own, pulling his hands away from the doorway. If Violette
couldn’t be dead, ergo, she must be alive. And if she was alive this must all
be a tasteless joke.
Trying to stand
steadily, he took a deep breath and inhaled the sharp, metallic smell of
blood. But Violette would be thorough in her jokes as she was in everything
else. It would be real blood. Animal blood. Yes, that must be it.
He charged forward,
to the bed, and put out a hand to shake her hand resting, half-closed, on the
frilly coverlet near a pool of blood that seemed more abundant and darker than
he’d have imagined possible. It was soaking into the fabric and probably into
the mattress beneath.
“Violette,” he
said. This close he could see the blade of a sharp dagger disappearing into
the flesh, and the wound into which it plunged, and the blood... Blood was
only trickling out now, but it already looked like there was more blood on her
than there should be in any human being. “Violette,” he said. “I am
offended. This is in extremely poor taste. You must know–”
His hand touched
her arm. Before he could control himself, he jumped back, his hands covering
his mouth, but not in time to hold back his shocked scream. She felt... not
exactly cold, but not as warm as living flesh should feel. Blindly, he
reached forward, grasped the handle of the knife, pulled it. It came way in
his hand, stained red and dripping. It had truly been buried in her flesh. And
her skin felt dead.
Aramis knew dead.
He’d killed men enough in duel and in combat ever since that day, when he –
still known as Chevalier D’Herblay – was barely more than nineteen and a young
man had caught him reading the lives of saints to the young man’s sister.
Well, at least that was what Aramis still told everyone he had been doing. The
truth was somewhere closer to his having demonstrated to the young lady the
biblical intricacies of the word know.
The young woman’s
brother had objected and challenged D’Herblay for a duel. And D’Herblay,
knowing instinctively that his fashionable looks, his command of Latin grammar
or even his wielding of sharp rhetoric would not get him out of this situation,
had looked for the best fencing master in Paris, Monsieur Pierre Du Vallon. So
good had Du Vallon’s lessons proved that D’Herblay had killed the prudish young
man. Which, since dueling was forbidden by royal edict and punishable at the
end of the executioner’s blade, had led to D’Herblay’s and Du Vallon’s going
into hiding under the assumed names of Aramis and Porthos in the uniform of his
majesty’s musketeers.
Since then Aramis
had fought more duels than he cared to think about. His hand Porthos’
acquaintance with a disgraced nobleman who called himself Athos and with a
young Gascon hothead called D’Artagnan had done nothing to make his life more
peaceful. Among the four of them, one or the other was forever challenging
someone to a duel and calling on all his friends to serve as seconds.
He’d killed men,
he’d seen corpses – Aramis heard his lips, loudly, mutter a string of Ave
Marias – but never one murdered like this, in the safety of her room, in the
privacy of her boudoir. And not while only Aramis was present. Not while only
Aramis could have done it.
His hand over his
mouth, the other hand gripping the bloody knife, he’d backed up until his behind
fetched up against one of Violette’s innumerable, amusing little tables,
covered in more lace, velvet, satin, and stacked high with books she never
read, her command of written French being shaky and her interest in the written
word being far secondary to her interest in other pastimes.
Through the roaring
in his ears, he was dimly aware that people were knocking at the door and at
least one, female voice, was shouting a string of Spanish names, followed by
other, equally Spanish words. The names were Violette’s. Her real name was a
string of proper names -- starting with Ysabella -- followed by a string of
surnames, all connected by y and de which Aramis could not hope
to understand or remember. Ever since – on a cold night, when he stood guard
at the royal palace -- she’d approached him and told him her name was Violette,
he’d called her that and nothing else.
But the knocking on
the door seemed like a distant worry. Closer at hand, Aramis was grappling
with his soul. Ever since his father had died, when Aramis was no more than
two, Aramis’ pious and noble mother had decided her young son was bound for the
church. So, wherever his path took him, he dragged with him the excellent,
thorough and insistent religious education his mother had given him.
Even now, in
uniform for many years, Aramis considered himself as a priest in training. As
soon as he cleared his name enough for some order to take him, he would take
orders.
He was aware of the
serious and grave sins he committed with Violette who was, after all, married
to some French nobleman living in the far provinces. True, her marriage had
been one arranged to match the marriage of the Queen, Anne of Austria, her
childhood companion and friend. Violette, to hear her talk, barely knew her
husband, with whom she had not spent more than the two weeks of the wedding
festivities. He enjoyed rural pleasures, and she’d lingered at court with her
friend the Queen. And she’d found Aramis.
And there, Aramis
thought, lay the crux of the sin, for they’d sinned often and in very
imaginative ways. And had not, perhaps, some angel reached from heaven to
smite with ivory dagger the cleft between Violette’s perfect breasts?
But the banging on
the door grew more insistent and Aramis’s knowledge of Latin allowed him to
guess that the Spanish-speaking woman wished to know who had screamed and why.
She would not be appeased by anything but Violette’s voice. A voice that would
not be heard, again, till the angel of the apocalypse sounded the final
trumpet.
Naked, scared,
shocked, Aramis stood and stared at the door which shook under the impact of
many hands, many fists.
Cold sweat ran down
his face. He felt his hand tremble. He’d never trembled in battle field or
field of honor, but this... This supernatural retribution, he could not
endure.
And yet, if an
angel had struck, would he not have killed both of them while they were
abandoned to their pleasure? And why would an angel wait until Aramis went to
the little room to attend a call of nature?
Despite his
education – or perhaps because of it, for, after all, it had included logic –
Aramis had an analytical mind which shouted over the vapors of his fear and the
madness of his religious guilt to tell him that a human hand had killed
Violette. A human hand not Aramis’.
Perhaps, he
thought, there was a tunnel into this room? After all, any palace of any age
at all had more tunnels, secret passages and hidden rooms than a rabbit warren.
But, looking around
the room, he could not imagine where the tunnel would open. Every available
palm-length of wall had one of Violette’s cabinets, tables, chaises leaning
against it. And all of it was solid, heavy Spanish furniture which would not
be moved by a simple door springing open behind it.
And now a man
pounded on the door and called out in French, “Madam, Madam, if you do not open
we’ll be forced to break down the door.”
Aramis, well versed
in the art of ordering palace staff knew that it would only be a matter of
minutes before some sturdy lads were brought forth and their shoulders applied
to the door. The lock was solid, but not that solid. It would open. And they
would catch him here. Alone. With Violette’s corpse.
How long before the
gibbet was built and he was hanged? Or would he be lucky enough to be
beheaded? One of his long, pale hands went, unmeant, to his long, elegant
neck.
It would kill his
mother.
He edged towards
the balcony door. It was the only way out. And that not a true way out. All
he could hope for was to fall to the hard ground that would break his body.
But at least he wouldn’t die on the gallows or the block. He would not bring
that shame onto his mother.
His hands, filled
with a decision he could only half muster, tore at the door, forcing it open.
The warm air of
spring rushed in on him, a scent of trees and grass and, beyond that, the scent
of manure and cooking fires that was the essence of the great, bustling city of
Paris.
His ears
unnaturally sharpened by his fear, he could hear somewhere on the grounds of
the palace the rough laughter of musketeers on guard and the sound of die being
tumbled. Was Athos or Porthos on guard tonight? He could not remember. Truth
was he could not remember what day it was any more and his normally perfect
knowledge of his friends’ guard schedules had slipped wholly from his mind.
In the end, his
wit, which had always been his defense, would desert him. The sound of the
knocks on the door changed. Ah. Sturdy shoulders applied with a will.
Aramis stepped out
onto the balcony, which was semi-circular, built of stone and surrounded with
little cylindrical columns of stone topped by a carefully edged parapet.
The polished stone
felt rough against his nakedness, as he leaned over to look three stories
below, to the paving of an ornamental patio surrounded by flowerbeds. On one
of the flowerbeds, in front of the balcony, a lone tree stood, filled with the
kind of tender green leaves that spring fostered, leaves still small enough
that one could see the tree branches trust skyward like the hands of beseeching
sinners beneath their sparkling green livery.
If Aramis flung
himself out... If he threw himself out towards it...
He narrowed his
eyes, calculating the distance, which was more than that of his outstretched
body were he laid in the air between it and the balcony. And worse, the
thickest part of the tree was a good story below.
His body had been
honed through years of duels and sword practice. He knew his muscles could
perform amazing leaps in the heat of combat. But here, in mid air, with
nothing to push against, how was he to reach for the saving branch of the
distant tree?
And even if he
managed to get down there, how could he save himself, naked and – he looked
down – somehow smeared with Violette’s blood? How could he escape the palace
and its well guarded entrances? Everyone knew he was in here with Violette.
Or, if not, everyone would guess when they found his uniform tossed casually
over one of her chaises.
He took a step in
the room, not so much intending to retrieve the uniform, but thinking of the
uniform, the image of his blue tunic in his mind and a vague idea that he
should pick it up impelling him.
And he heard the
crack of the door, as it gave under the assault of young men’s shoulders.
If he jumped, it
would be suicide. But if he stayed here, they would kill him. Suicide was a
sin.
Without thinking,
with no time to plan, he scrambled up onto the little stone parapet. He put
the handle of the knife between his teeth. He could always use it on himself if
it looked like he’d be captured alive.
He would shame
neither his mother nor his friends.
He crossed
himself. And then he jumped, somersaulting, his body twisting mid air, his
arms reaching hopelessly towards the impossible hold of the distant tree branches.
Top
hg
Aramis’ finger
closed on twigs and an abundance of leaves, mere tips of branches and no
stronger than a toothpick.
Half disbelieving,
he grabbed them, hard. But he’d barely got a hold on them, when he felt them
give under his weight, snapping, as he fell. He scrabbled madly with sweaty
fingertips, waving them around, till his left hand closed on another branch,
scarcely thicker. Which in turn gave way letting him grasp a yet thicker
branch, which also gave under his weight, letting him drop again, tilted and
kicking out with his legs, waving his arms, trying to find–
He fell hard,
straddling a branch, bark and leaves and sharp twigs introducing themselves to
his notice with a bump so sharp that his eyes teared and he managed a scream
around the handle of the knife in his mouth.
A scream which, his
half conscious brain realized, would only bring pursuers to him.
Blinking the tears
away from his eyes, he took stock of the tree, which was, fortunately, verdant
and, this low, had dense enough foliage to hide him. Or at least, it would be
if he weren’t straddling one of the lower branches, his naked legs, covered in
fine blond hair, hanging on either side of it and his naked feet dangling free
below.
Quickly, scraping
both legs on the bark, he jumped up, and stood on the branch. He was aware
that scratches covered his legs, and that his muscles hurt. But he had no time
to think about it. He scurried along the branch, towards the center of the
tree, trying not to disturb the foliage.
Remembering his
view from the balcony he judged that the outer wall of the palace should lay
against the branch directly opposed to this one. He ran along the branch to
the other.
From beneath came a
confused babble of sounds, a noise of voices raised in that tone people use
when asking each other what to do next.
Aramis reached the
farthest point of the branch where he could safely stand. The wall of stone ,
which rose beyond that, was only visible as a glimmer of grey between the
leaves. Too far away to reach even with extended arm.
The voices on the
ground became audible enough that he could understand what they were saying.
“He must have gone
this way,” said a shrill voice, clearly a woman’s or a young man’s.
“He can’t,”
countered the more sensible voice of a male. “How could he jump from the
balcony and survive?”
Aramis, his blood
pounding in his ears, his vision dim, and all of his body hurting as if he had
been flogged, wondered how he could have survived too. He only half believed
it.
“Well,” the
shriller voice said. “Then where could he be? For he’s not in the room.
Phillip yelled down he wasn’t. So he must have jumped. And you see that tree
yonder? Look at all the broken twigs and leaves at the base.”
Aramis bit harder
into the handle of the knife that had killed his mistress. He stifled a moan
of despair. They would find him. They would–
“Ah, here comes
Pierre, with the dogs,” said the man, over a low, vicious snarling.
Aramis jumped. He
jumped, hands extended, forward and up, towards the garden wall. And met a
surface that some mason had taken great pride in making as smooth as possible.
His fingers slid
off the stone and he managed to muffle a whimper as he scrabbled with hands and
feet and felt skin tear and nails rip. He found a foothold and one handhold,
and scrabbled madly with his other hand, till he found another hold, higher
up. His other foot found a place to lodge, a bare crack between two stones.
More by force of will than by the strength of his hands and feet, he scrambled
up the wall.
Balancing atop of
it, drawing a trembling breath, he heard the snuffles and whines of dogs. And
jumped over.
On the other side,
all was dark and still. The evening had deepened and the road that ringed the
palace was deserted. Save for the sounds of voices and dogs, now muffled by
the wall, all was quiet.
Aramis took a deep
breath and wiped the sweat from his forehead to the back of his arm. He trembled
and told himself it was with cold, despite the warmth of the balmy air.
Leaning against the
wall, he tried to think what to do next. He could not run through Paris naked
without being noticed. And besides, very soon they would send someone to his
lodgings. They would be there, ready to arrest him before he could get
clothes.
He took another
deep breath and faced the prospect of going into the night, naked and alone.
And where could he go? Any half-wit would also take the precaution of sending
guards to wait at his friends’ homes. The four of them were known as the four
inseparables. And the Cardinal, who would soon enough make this his business,
was no half-wit.
And then he heard,
from the left side, as he stood, the sound of dice rolled in a leather cup and
a curt, low imprecation, “Damn.”
It could have come
from many mouths. But the choice of the single word and the tone in which it
was said – as though the gambler had lost a great deal, but didn’t deem it
important enough to allow for more than a word – made Aramis think of Athos.
Athos always lost at games of chance. And yet he always played.
The voice had been
too distant and too faint in reaching his ears to be easily identified. To be
true, it could be almost anyone who had sworn so quietly into the evening air.
But Aramis wanted
it to be Athos. Willed it to be Athos.
From the other side
of the wall came the barking of dogs, and someone saying, “There’s blood here.
He climbed the wall here.”
Aramis ran towards
the sound of dice. He would risk it. Knitting himself with the shadow, he
ran, hoping that one thing in this disastrous evening would go right. Hoping
to find sanctuary.
Rounding the corner
of the wall, he emerged into the shadow of the palace, where the bulk of the walls
hid the scant light of the stars in the evening sky.
In the dark, he saw
three men, sitting in front one of the palace gates, playing dice. He
hesitated. With them sitting, like that, it was hard to tell what the men
looked like, save that they were musketeers, wrapped in cloaks and wearing
their hats. Three musketeers. But D’Artagnan wasn’t a musketeer.
The one facing
Aramis stood and said, “Holla, who goes there?”
Athos’ voice. Weak
with relief, Aramis surged forward. He removed the dagger from his mouth, held
it tip down in his trembling hand. “Athos,” he said.
Athos, tall,
ivory-skinned and blue eyed, graced with an incongruous cascade of dark curls
down his back, normally looked like nobility incarnate. Less like a man than
like a statue whom time and events could not touch. Now his eyes widened in
shock; his face went paler yet; his dark blue eyes opened wide. “Aramis,” he
said.
The other two men
stood and turned, swords in hand. One of them, the smaller one with the dark
hair, wore not the musketeer’s uniform, but the similar uniform of the guards
of Monsieur des Essarts, in a paler blue than the Musketeer’s clothes. He was
very young, not yet twenty, dark haired and dark eyed, with the olive
complexion of Gascony which was close to the border with Spain. He turned with
the feline grace that was his characteristic.
The larger one – a
giant with red hair and beard – stood and turned with the gracefulness of a
dancer or a fencing master. His handsome face was undeniably that of Aramis’
oldest friend, Porthos.
“Please,” Aramis
said, his strength almost gone, his heart beating at his throat from the sound
of dogs approaching from behind. It was all he could do not to run and try to
hide behind his friends. “Please. You have to help me.”
Top
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Athos heard the
sound of approaching feet and, further off, the sound of dogs and pursuit. He
stood.
Out of the
gathering dark, gloomier here where the shadow of the wall hid the moon than in
most places around the palace, a strange apparition came running. He was tall
and blond and had, in general, the form and shape of Aramis.
Athos’ mind told
him it was Aramis, but his senses denied it. He’d never seen Aramis like
this. It was not like his gallant friend to be running around naked, covered
in blood, with a dagger between his teeth and an expression of pure panic on
his regular features. And was that twigs entwined in the long blond hair that
Aramis normally brushed till it glimmered?
“Holla, who goes
there?” that part of Athos that refused to admit this could be one of his
oldest and closest friends asked.
The man took the
dagger from between his teeth, and held it in his hand, tip down, in such a way
it was clear he had no intention of attacking. “Athos,” he rasped.
There was such a
tone of relief in the voice, such a tone of having found just the sanctuary
he’d been looking for that Athos could no longer deny who this was. “Aramis,”
he said.
And on the name,
his two other friends stood up, D’Artagnan quickly scooping the dice into his
leather cup as he went.
“Help me,” Aramis
said. “You have to help me. They’re after me. They will catch me. They
think I murdered–”
“Silence,” Athos
said. There was the sound of dogs and the sound of pursuit from behind, and
surely Aramis didn’t mean to speak that loudly. There was only one thing to
do, but Athos was afraid of saying anything, of calling any attention. At any
rate, he was a man of quick mind but few words. The natural garrulousness of
youth had been quelled in him for over ten years, since the day he’d hanged his
wife from a low branch in his park and left his ancestral home and his title of
count to join the musketeers under an assumed name.
Instead of talking,
he unlaced his cloak, threw it over Aramis’ shoulders. He looked at D’Artagnan
and in the dark, quick eyes of their youngest friend, he caught comprehension.
D’Artagnan removed his hat and shoved the mass of Aramis’ hair under it, before
shoving the hat on Aramis’ head. It was a plumed hat and blue. True the blue
was somewhat different than the one the musketeers wore, but in this dark
place, only those who had reason to suspect it would look for the color
difference.
To Athos’ surprise,
Porthos, a man who thought with his huge hands, his sharp, overdeveloped
senses, didn’t need an explanation. By the time D’Artagnan stepped away –
having pulled Aramis’ hat down over his face to hide his blood-stained features
– Porthos was there, holding out what seemed like a pair of breeches.
A casual glance
revealed that he had not indeed exposed himself. The breeches he had on were
embroidered velvet. The ones he held out to Aramis were over-breeches,
slashed, to allow the embroidery to shine through.
Count on Porthos to
wear twice as many clothes as needed. However, the plain dark breeches, when
on Aramis, were loose enough not to display the slashes.
Athos nodded his
approval, and nothing remained but to fish in his sleeve for his own, silken handkerchief
and use it to clean Aramis’ face of blood enough to pass in the gloom.
The whole had taken
very little time, but the voices of Aramis’ pursuers sounded near now.
Without speaking, with hasty gestures, Athos directed the rest of them to sit
or kneel on the ground. He, himself, pushed on Aramis’ shoulders, forcing the
younger musketeer to kneel down in the boneless manner of a man in shock. He
adjusted the fold of the cloak he’d loaned Aramis over Aramis’ bare feet.
At the last moment,
noticing the ivory dagger in Aramis’ hand, Athos took it and slipped it into
his own belt, in a place where the folds of the hem of his old-fashioned,
Spanish style doublet hid it.
Athos ran back to
roughly where Aramis’ footsteps left off, took his own shoes off and then ran
past them to a place near the road. He put his boots back on, and scuffed the
sand , kicking and running around a bit, like a mad man. Then he jumped well
away from the scuffled area, and ran back to them.
His friends were
looking at him as if afraid he might have gone mad. All except Aramis who
looked down at the ground as if it contained the grave of all his hopes.
What was Aramis
doing, running around with a bloodied dagger? Whose dagger was it? Athos did
not remember ever seeing his friend with an ivory dagger. What had Aramis done
with it? Why were servants and dogs pursuing him?
But the questions
would have to wait, because the pursuers were on them. Just before they
reached them, D’Artagnan somehow flourished the dice cup and threw the dice, a
distinctive and non-frantic noise. The noise of friends relaxing together.
Athos managed a
smile at the young man, before the pursuers arrived.
Then he turned,
away from the men seemingly engaged in a game of dice, sword in hand, and faced
the pursuers. They were, as he expected, the sort of rabble that can be roused
in the middle of the night and sent on any pursuit at all for the sake of being
able to scare another human being, evil doer or not.
There were five
men, one of them almost as tall as Athos, all of them unkempt and clad in what
appeared to be servant uniforms much the worse for the wear. Two of them held
dogs straining at the leash, sniffing around disconsolately.
They wouldn’t be
used to tracking humans, Athos thought. They were primarily hunting dogs, who
followed various animals through fields and meadows.
Chasing Aramis must
have been easy. There was just the scent of a human, a bloodied human, at
that. But here, they would be confused by new smells. Aramis was wearing
borrowed clothing with their smells upon it.
Before the men
handling the dogs could give a command, Athos said, “Who goes there?”
The taller of the
men, holding a large brown and black dog on the leash examined Athos from head
to toe with a look Athos was not used to receiving from anyone, much less a
peasant. “What business is it of yours?” he asked.
“I guard the
entrance to the King’s palace,” Athos said, straightening himself, and only
managing to hold his temper in check because it wouldn’t do to call their
closer attention to them or to Aramis.
“A fine job you’ve
done,” one of the pursuers said. “Considering that murder was done within.”
“Murder?” Athos
said. “Within the palace? Then why hasn’t the alarm been given?” He gave the
servant a glare that implied that the man was a bit worse for the drink.
The man stopped at
that. Clearly, he’d never thought to give the alarm to the palace at large and
was now wondering why he hadn’t.
A small person
pushed from the back of the crowd. A woman, Athos realized, as she pushed
forward to stand before him. She was very short, barely coming up to his
chest, she was also very round, not so much fat as spherical, with the sort of
the of coloration that betrayed she was either Spanish or from somewhere very
close to Spain. Her hair was tucked up into a bun and her clothes were the
genteel but not too fashionable attire of a maid of honor to a noblewoman.
“It is my lady,”
she said, wringing her hands together in front of her. “My lady de Ysabella de
Ybarra Menezes y...”
“What happened to
your lady?” Athos asked.
“We heard a scream
from her room,” the woman said. She looked up with sad black eyes. “We heard
a scream and went to look, but the door was closed. Locked. She was– She’d
been–”
Athos raised his
eyebrows. If the Lady Ysabella was the woman to whom Aramis called Violette,
and if Aramis had been present in her room, Athos could very well imagine what
she’d been.
The woman clearly
could not bring herself to say that her mistress had been disporting herself
with a musketeer. Instead she shrugged, an elaborate and very Latin gesture,
and said, “Well, she was with a friend whom she trusted. But no one answered
when we called, and when we knocked the door down...” She took a deep breath
with a hint of sob to it, as though she were just holding hysteria at bay.
“When we broke down the door, there she was, my lady, on her bed, with a wound
between her breasts.”
“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.”
“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’ 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
over-eager. 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’ 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.
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