Death in Gascony (13 page)

So, first, D’Artagnan would go see his cousin, Edmond de Bigorre, and Monsieur de Bilh. From them he would collect accounts to corroborate—or not—Father Urtou’s.

And then…And then he would try to find out what had happened before the duel. And what enemies his father might had.

“Are the de Comminges very religious?” Aramis asked.

“I beg your pardon?” D’Artagnan said, confused. Aramis’s voice seemed to come from somewhere else altogether and his words were at best incongruous.

“The de Comminges. This wealthy and noble family you spoke of. Are they very religious? And if so, what religion?”

D’Artagnan shrugged. “You know, I have no idea. I’m sure they’re very religious, one way or another.” He looked around at his native land, feeling for the first time out of place here, and yet loving it as never before. “In these forsaken mountains, to grow anything but rocks you need a miracle. We’re all religious. But whether they’re Catholic or not…” He shrugged. He tried to think, but of course the two families wouldn’t attend the same church or frequent the same places. He shook his head. “I couldn’t tell you. Why should it matter?”

“I simply wondered,” Aramis said, and smiled one of his innocent smiles, that could be truly innocent or else the very center of guile. “I simply wondered if perhaps Athos and I owe them a visit.”

This made sense, as much as anything else. At least Athos, the scion of one of the oldest and noblest families in the kingdom, probably should visit the greatest house in the region. At least if not divided by issues of religion.

D’Artagnan sighed. “Probably.” Then shook his head. “I’m going to see my cousin, de Bigorre, to…to find out if he knows where my father had been before the duel.” He knew better than to even hint to Aramis that he needed to corroborate the priest’s testimony. Doubtless the blond musketeer would take it as an insult on the church, if not an insult on all of Christendom. “If you wish to come with me…”

Aramis hesitated. Then he shook his head. “No. When I think about it, Father Urtou probably would know if they’re Catholic. I’ll go within and ask him.”

A
THOS
woke up with someone in his room. Without moving, he opened his eyes just enough to look between his eyelashes. He knew that it was not Grimaud. The rhythms of this breath were lighter and faster than Grimaud’s ever were.

He didn’t know whether it might be Planchet. The boy had broken into Athos’s room once and, having broken into Athos’s room and lived, who knows what crazy bravery he might be tempted to? But then, Athos had not locked his door, and he was in a strange house. It might very well be the pot boy, or an overzealous house maid. Who knew?

It was probably an innocent intruder, but then there had been at least one person killed in mysterious circumstances, and there were the attacks on D’Artagnan to consider. Athos would hold himself back, but he wouldn’t be so foolhardy as to assume he was in no danger at all.

He reached under his pillow for the dagger he kept there, and half opened his eyes—enough that it wouldn’t show beneath his long, black lashes. Through this opening, he looked around—seemingly tossing his head aimlessly—at a darkened room.

The only light came around his shuttered window, and it was enough to show him that the room was untouched—the clothing trunk remained where it was, with the clothes he’d tossed on it the night before. And there was no one immediately near his bed, so it was unlikely someone was about to attack him.

His nose picked up a delicate fragrance of roses, intruding on the stale air of the room, just before he caught sight of a billowing, black gown, the flash of long blond hair by the door.

A woman.

“
Sangre Dieu
,” he said, sitting up, his hand still on his dagger.

The woman by the door jumped and covered her mouth. “Oh, no, monsieur. Oh, no. I don’t mean…Oh, monsieur.”

He recognized Madame D’Artagnan, properly attired for the day.

It was, perhaps, not unusual, perhaps not even strange that a hostess should come into a guest’s room. Perhaps she wanted to verify that all was as it might be. But when the guest was a man, the hostess a recent widow and when, besides, the guest had reason to suspect the widow of, at very least, immoral behavior…

Athos held the dagger, visible, on his lap. “Madame D’Artagnan,” he said. “To what do I owe the honor of your visit?”

She shook, as though he had threatened her. She was holding, he noticed, a handkerchief between her hands, and this handkerchief she wrung, like a laundress removing excess water from clothing. Even in the shuttered twilight of the room, it was clear she had been crying—her very white skin marred by the tracks of tears and by red puffiness around her eyes.

Athos wished very much that he was still the sort of man whom this display would move; the sort of man who would assume a woman was innocent because she was beautiful and in distress; the sort of man he’d once been.

Out of this wish, though he could no longer be that man, he bowed his head and spoke with gruff almost kindness, “Madam,” he said. “What do you wish?”

She walked in the room. One step, two, her skirts rustling, the scent of roses heavier in the stale air. Then she stopped. Whether from natural shyness or from having seen his dagger, he could not hazard.

“Monsieur…Monsieur…Athos? How odd that name? Isn’t that a mountain in Greece?”

“Armenia,” Athos said. And nothing more, since he didn’t view it as his duty to educate her on geography. He viewed it even less as his duty to educate her on the subterfuges of men who, having left heart and honor behind, changed their honored name to another one, to keep that name safe, like a false sleeve will keep the expensive fabric beneath free of dirt.

She looked up, her blue eyes wide and full of incomprehension. Her gaze looked a little wounded, perhaps, as though she thought he was mocking her with his laconic answer. “Monsieur Athos,” she said, and swallowed. “I come…I come as a mother in distress, to beg you…enfin, to beg you to take my son away as fast as it may be. Take him back to Paris and to his haunts there. Take him, as soon as you may. He is not safe here.”

Athos looked at her consideringly, frowning a little. “Not safe? Why do you say that?”

She shook her head. “To tell you would only increase his danger and…and yours. And it would…it would injure Henri, should he find out. Oh, monsieur, please, take him back to Paris that he may be safe.”

Athos heard himself laugh. He couldn’t help it. “Madam, do you know how very few people—indeed, how no one else—would advise the taking of their offspring to Paris and the company of musketeers in order to keep him
safe
?”

She tossed her head, an impatient gesture so reminiscent of D’Artagnan when he thought he was being put on that it made Athos startle.

“I don’t care,” she said. “I don’t care what other people will do or not. I just know my only son is in danger—real danger, monsieur.”

“What type of danger?” Athos asked.

She walked over to the shuttered window and pulled the shutter wide, staying back just enough that no one would see her at the window of his room. It was, he thought, as though she’d practiced this art in the past, of opening a window without showing herself.

This was the old part of the house, and the window wasn’t glazed. When the shutter opened wide, sunlight and the thin, brisk air of winter poured into the room together.

The light revealed Madame D’Artagnan as paler than Athos had seen her last, her eyes redder. She looked not only like she’d spent the entire night crying, but as though she’d managed to be tormented by horrible dreams the while.

“All danger. All of it attends him here. If he remains, I’m sure he’ll lose his honor, his heart and perhaps his life.”

Athos shook his head. “Why did you call him back, then, if you knew he would be in danger?”

She shook her head. “I was foolish. I am, monsieur, but a woman.”

He laughed again, despite himself, the sound of it an almost hollow cackle in the air. “Ah, madam. I am old enough to know that when a woman professes to be weak she is, in fact, exercising her greatest strength, which is that of having men think her weak and mild and powerless.”

“But I am weak and mild and powerless,” she said, with real feeling.

He refrained from laughing again. “Madam. I know your son.”

“My son…ah, my son is all his father. It has very little to do with me, at all. Or perhaps…not exactly like his father. Henri has a kind heart.”

“Are you telling me Monsieur D’Artagnan lacked a kind heart?” Athos said.

She started. “Oh, no. Oh, no. My husband…my husband was the kindest man I ever met. Never would a stray come to the door that he didn’t find it a place, feed it, care for it. It didn’t matter if it was man or beast, my husband was ever ready to help all. Oh, he blustered and yelled, and could be quite terrifying in a temper.” She shrugged. “Gasconades. All the men here—or at least the good ones—are like that. It means nothing.”

“But—” Athos frowned. He didn’t attempt to point out her contradiction to her. Doubtless, if he tried, she would tell him she was nothing but a poor woman, once more. It didn’t make any difference, and it certainly didn’t change anything, and he didn’t care to cross the rapier of wit with this woman that was less open about her motives and thoughts than Aramis. “Enfin, Madame D’Artagnan, I must tell you that your son has a mind of his own. Having written to him—I don’t know nor do I care from what motives—and told him that you needed his presence, you cannot now dismiss him. I cannot now convince him to leave.”

“But he must,” she said. It was almost a wail. “He must go back to Paris.”

He permitted himself to raise a skeptical eyebrow. “Madam. I don’t think you could make D’Artagnan leave from the moment he found out his father had died. Why, even our coming with him was an imposition. He wanted to travel alone. He was sure—and probably still is—that it is his bound duty to remain in Gascony and to take over his father’s duties here at the estate.”

“Oh, but he doesn’t need to,” she said. “I can do it. I am here.”

“Alas,” he said, bobbing a little bow from his sitting position. “Your son believes it is his duty, and his right, to look after you and protect you.”

The handkerchief was out in her hands again—a thin little scrap of linen bordered in lace. “Oh, but he must not. I’m in no danger, so long as he’s not here. With him here, we’re both of us in danger. In fact, if you hadn’t traveled with him…” She stopped, shook her head.

“He would never have arrived,” Athos said, completing the sentence that she had started. “How do you know that, madam?” He tightened his grip on the dagger. “I’d dearly like to know.”

She startled, and her eyes opened yet wider, showing more guileless innocence than ever. He would not believe it.

“Oh, but I don’t know it,” she said. “I don’t know it at all. But…but it would make sense. I knew he’d be in danger as soon as he started towards Gascony. Or at least…I had good reason to suspect as much, since shortly after I sent that letter, and, monsieur, I was in fear till he arrived. I spent the days in my praying room, crying and begging God for the life of my only son. As you see, he heard me. And now you must hear me as well. You must take him out of here, that he may continue to be safe. And that I too can rest.”

Athos looked at her. Everything she said was either a clear and a blatant lie or a twisted mass of contradictions. And yet…

And yet, his perverse heart insisted in believing she was truthful about some of the things she said—that she hadn’t known upon writing the letter that it would be dangerous for D’Artagnan to come to Gascony; that she’d realized it shortly after; and that she was sincere in her wish to get him out of here—that she believed this was the only way to keep him safe.

Tangled with it, and even more confusing, was the tone of voice in which she’d spoken of her deceased husband. After witnessing the almost cold way in which she referred to him in public, Athos couldn’t help but feel startled at the tenderness in her voice when she spoke of his kindness to what she termed strays coming to the door unannounced.

Athos wondered if the coldness she’d shown in public was her attempt to get her son to leave, and to leave quickly.

And yet, even realizing how sincere she was, and that she was well-intentioned towards his friend—that she was, in fact, a natural mother seeking to protect her offspring—Athos couldn’t help but mistrust her.

Part of this was that he mistrusted all of womankind. Once having been betrayed by the most innocent seeming and purest looking of them all, he could not bring himself to trust any other. Purity and seeming innocence only made them more unreliable. It had been his experience that those who looked more like innocent flowers were the most likely to harbor venom in their hearts.

But beyond that…Beyond that, he didn’t trust Madame D’Artagnan’s reasoning. She might be D’Artagnan’s mother, and he the most cunning of all Gascons who’d ever come to Paris in search of his fortune, but the pale blue eyes held none of the quick intelligence of D’Artagnan’s dark ones.

He sighed and shook his head at her. “Madam, when you tell me to take your son to Paris, you overestimate my influence—indeed, anyone’s influence—over him. Your son, madam, is the most stubborn man who ever wore a uniform. If you think I can tell him to go to Paris and that he will meekly go…”

She smiled a little, even as tears started in her eyes and her voice, curiously, mingled despair and pride as she said, “Oh, he was always like that. Always from a babe. It was never, ‘Henri, do this’ and he would do it. Oh, no. He needed to be tricked, cajoled and pushed into doing what he must do. Not that he was…” Her lips trembled. “You must understand, monsieur. He was neither ill-intentioned nor malicious. You must not think that. And he was not disobedient as such. Rather he had a way of finding out how to seem to obey your order exactly while doing exactly the opposite of what you wished.” Now the tears poured down her cheeks, even as her smile enlarged. “My husband, Charles, he often said that the boy was just like him, though I don’t know…He said that Henri was the son of his heart and his soul, and he delighted in his spirit, and his little rebellions.”

“Unfortunately, madam, that same spirit means my ability to turn him away from what he views as his duty is very small indeed. He wishes to stay here and look after you and his domains, and I think to turn him away from it is beyond my influence.”

“Oh, but you could trick him. We used to trick him into doing things…”

“Madam! What trick could I use to make him leave you and his household?”

“You could send a note to his commander in Paris, and get him to send him an urgent note requesting his presence.”

“Indeed, I could,” Athos said. “But your son resigned his commission before coming home.”

“Oh,” D’Artagnan’s mother said, and put her hand in front of her mouth. “Oh no. It is impossible, then?”

Athos nodded, his features dour. And then, before he could anticipate what she was about to do, this madwoman fell to her knees beside his bed and inclined her head. “Monsieur Athos, as you are an honorable man, then, and as you are the oldest and most respectable of this band of friends my son brought with him, I beg of you that you will keep my son safe. Please, monsieur. I am a poor woman begging you for the life of the only real family she has left in all the world. Please, protect my Henri.”

Flushing, Athos nodded and shook his head, and grunted. “Madam,” he said, in some heat. “Get up madam. Never go on your knees, except to God and king. Never. I would protect your son with my life, anyway. He is my friend. He is almost my son. I will keep him as safe as I can. There is no need for you to beg me.”

And like that she got up, and flashed him a smile through her tears, and grabbed his hand, and kissed it—before he could withdraw it—and said, “Thank you, monsieur, thank you.”

And like that she was out of the room’s door, leaving Athos sitting on the bed, bewildered, the warmth of her lips still on the back of his hand, a dagger in his other hand, and her words like a riddle marching through his brain and turning it into a labyrinth.