Death in Gascony (25 page)

P
ORTHOS
had spent the whole morning riding around; hit up all the taverns around there. In most places his probably not too subtle questions about horses had been dismissed with the sort of shrug that meant they thought the big man from Paris was less than sane.

It was Porthos belief—and he philosophized on this a moment—that if anyone knew where the horses had originated, and if indeed there was any secret or shame attaching to their origin, the people would either hotly deny any knowledge of them or else—of course—innocently tell him what they knew.

The shrug, on the other hand, and the shake of head of the provincial damsels he’d queried on the matter, he thought, meant that neither did they know of any horses having come that way, nor could they imagine any harm in a movement of horses between noble houses. Therefore, he presumed, these were not the people he was looking for.

A visit to the de Bigorre house proved no more fruitful. Though there he met with more than a shrug, a smile and a head shake. The laughter, with which the groom told him that while de Bigorre was selling his horses it was piecemeal, not at all all at once, told him he was on the wrong track.

Besides, he judged, with the proximity by blood of the two houses—de Bigorre and D’Artagnan—the grooms and stable boys were quite likely to know each other. Had the horses come from the de Bigorre house, then Bayard was likely as not to know where they’d come from. And while he might want to hold on to the fantasy that they came from Cardinal and King, he would not so blithely repeat it, because if he did he was likely to be uncovered in a lie and he would know it.

As the sun climbed towards noon, Porthos found himself mounted upon his horse by the side of a bare field, while the weak sun of winter beat upon his broad shoulders and back. He was trying to accomplish something he did not very often attempt.

Porthos, a huge man, good with his hands and with the physical movements of dancing and dueling, and an expert at noticing anything awry in a picture or a room, was slow and awkward with his words, and thinking of what other people’s words—or indeed their actions—meant was bound to confuse him.

He sat on his horse, while his complaining stomach told him that he should head back to the D’Artagnan home for food. But the thing was—he tallied it on his fingers—the horses didn’t seem to have come to the D’Artagnan home through any of the surrounding villages, or any of the approaches from Paris.

Even supposing that they’d come from one of the neighboring villages—supposing Athos was right about such details as how the horses were shod in a different manner from the Parisian work—they didn’t seem to have passed any of the roads they must have passed on their way to the bastide.

And they’d not come from the de Bigorre house. Of that Porthos was sure.

He frowned at the pale blue sky. “The devil,” he said, to himself. “Unless Gascons have found a way to make their cattle fly, they must have come from somewhere around here.”

It was then that he realized he had not yet checked de Comminges. There didn’t seem any reason to. He would own he didn’t like the fellow, despite his very hospitable behavior to them. In fact, he didn’t like him so much that he’d been inclined to forego the wine he’d served, because, truth be told, he wasn’t sure such a creature as that, dressed all in black and thinking himself so above anyone else, wouldn’t believe it incumbent upon himself to poison them.

But he’d drunk the wine and come to no harm, and still he couldn’t like Monsieur de Comminges. A great part of that might be that he’d spent such a large time fluently discussing religion with Aramis.

It was Porthos’s belief that anyone who could argue religion or philosophy at any length, turning one end against the other and back again, must perforce be someone that could not be trusted. But then again, he was a fair enough man to admit this might be his prejudice alone.

And knowing he was prejudiced against the man caused him to hesitate to go and question his servants. Priding himself on his fairness, Porthos suspected that if he went in to speak to them, he would be likely—too likely—to interpret any dubious pronouncement as indicting de Comminges.

But then again—he owned a very large house. It had many horses and some might easily have disappeared, without causing any alarm. What was more, he had farms and horses in the country, and in one of the villages both Athos and he had heard of horses being sent from the farm to the de Comminges house recently.

Nothing for it but to go and check that last possible source for the cattle, before heading to the D’Artagnan home for a bit of food.

Sighing, he set his horse on the road to the de Comminges house, which he approached the back way and through a gate which, he’d noticed, led to the stables. Approaching the stables, he’d smelled cooking sausage, and, his stomach rumbling, he’d approached, while frantically making up an excuse in his mind for his presence here.

But as it turned out, all the men and boys who worked in the stables were gathered around the fire, cooking sausages, and didn’t take it as at all remarkable that he’d first visited the lord and now came and ate sausage with them in the stables.

On the contrary, Porthos recognized in them what he’d seen before from men in the capital—it was a twin reaction to his presence which never ceased to amuse him. On the one hand these people—common born—felt themselves honored to have a lord in their midst and would say nothing to remind him he was outside his proper sphere. On the other hand, noting his difficulty with words, they would sometimes trade smiles among themselves, as though to signify that he might be a lord, but he was not, in any way, better than them.

Here, in the de Comminges household, was added, as it hadn’t been in Paris, the fact that most of the servants spoke the Gascon tongue and seemed to amuse themselves trading comments about him when he could not possibly understand them.

Porthos, used to people thinking him far dumber than he was, didn’t mind. Instead, he settled to play the part of the amiable dunce—it being his experience that people were far more likely to speak unconsidered truths to people they considered their inferiors in wit than to those they judged their superiors.

“Monsieur D’Artagnan bought some fine horses from your master,” he said at last, in the tone of a man who’s run out of conversation and turns to horses because these people work with them.

“The young master, aye,” one of the stable boys said. “Because the old devil wouldn’t sell anything to him, not even for breath if he were starving for it.”

“Ah,” Porthos had said, as if this meant a lot, and had taken a bite out of the sausage. It was spicy with garlic and sage and he had no trouble at all pretending to be too busy with it to attend. “So the young master sold him the horses?”

“Aye,” the older stable boy said. “And must have made him pay dearly for it, because he had no need to sell the horses otherwise. Prime ones, too, brought in from his farm and taken to the D’Artagnan house forthwith.”

“They are very fine horses,” Porthos said. “Better than most I’ve seen.”

At that one of the stable boys made a comment to the other in Gascon, and Porthos pretended he didn’t notice it or hear it. He was sure it pertained to the fact that he must usually ride mules or worse.

But he didn’t care. He’d found what he’d been sent to find, and he could now go back to his friends and bring them this fact for all it was worth.

T
HEY
met at D’Artagnan’s house, where Madame D’Artagnan more or less forced them to partake of a late midday dinner.

Athos observed that Porthos ate very little, and that D’Artagnan tended to blush when he looked at his mother. If Madame D’Artagnan noticed her son’s unusual behavior though, she made no mention of it.

Instead, she was all full of news of poor Father Urtou’s murder. “And the thieves must have thought we had better plate than we do,” she said. “They must have been some of those dreadful highwaymen that move about the countryside, attacking churches and despoiling virgins,” she said, and blushed a little. “They killed the poor man by hitting him over the head with the heavy crucifix from the altar. One wonders how it came about, for surely he wouldn’t let some stranger take the cross from the altar and sneak around behind him. That sacristy is so small that there is not any possible way he would not have seen an intruder, or been conscious of his presence.” She sighed. “I’ll tell you how it had to be. Someone had to have broken into the church before the poor man arrived, and taken the cross. And then, armed with the cross, they must have gone into the sacristy.” She shook her head. “But it makes no sense at all. Because if they’d taken the cross, that was probably what they wanted and why should they take it to the sacristy? And if they’d gone to the sacristy in search of plate, surely they would leave that cross alone, for it’s plain to see that it’s iron and made by our local blacksmith—a thing of no very great artistry.” She paused and took a moment to take a bite of chicken and a bite of bread. “But none of it signifies, of course. Perhaps they took the cross with them to use as a weapon?” She looked up, puzzled. “Do such people not have weapons of their own? Knives and swords? I don’t know anything of the breed, but surely…”

“Usually,” D’Artagnan said. “Usually they have weapons of their own. In fact, most men carry either a sword or a knife. Mostly noblemen at least.” He sounded as if he were deep in thought.

“Oh, you can’t think this was a nobleman, son, can you? Surely it had to be some peasant? Perhaps not a highwayman, but a brutish peasant, full of wine and mirth, come to the church after having drunk all night.” She frowned. “The thing is, how could it be one of our local peasants? If it were such, surely he would know that we have no plate left to speak of. All stolen by some army or another during the wars.” A look at D’Artagnan. “Your father told me all about it, of course, but I can’t remember which army it was. It is so hard to keep these things straight in one’s head.”

After a silence, in which none of them ventured an answer, and in which Athos tried not to think—tried very hard not to think—that if it were a woman who’d killed the poor priest, it would be highly unlikely she would have a weapon, Madame D’Artagnan sighed. “At any rate, the Mass and funeral are tomorrow morning. Most of the village will be there, of course. Not I. Funerals do make me that ill that I cannot attend. Else, it would be my funeral as well. But Marguerite and Bayard will attend, doubtless, and perhaps you gentlemen…” She sighed again. “I know he was very old, and that he lived a long and good life, and is doubtless, even now, rejoicing in heaven, but truly—such a good man and so devoted to this land and our people, it is hard to believe that he is gone. And gone like that too, violently and at the hand of an unknown person.” She shuddered. “You’ll think me silly, Henri, but it seems to me a…a memento mori, as it were. First your father, then…No. First Monsieur de Comminges, then your father and then this poor priest. It makes you wonder if there will be more. But perhaps not, for they say disaster normally comes in threes.”

Athos thought of de Comminges and the document he’d seen but refused to show D’Artagnan and he blushed dark red at the thought and turned his attention to the excellent wine in his glass.

This was when D’Artagnan rose and announced, “We must go for a ride, my friends. I feel I’ve eaten too much and I will be ill, at this late a dinner with no exercise.”

Porthos looked as though he would argue, then flinched suddenly. A sure sign, Athos thought, that he’d been kicked under the table. As for himself, he rose quickly, concurring, “Oh, yes, all this food and being close confined will surely be unhealthy.”

Madame D’Artagnan, still sitting, blinked up at them, her sparkling pale blue eyes filled with confusion. “But, monsieurs,” she said, hesitating. “You were out only this morning.”

“Ah, but not enough,” D’Artagnan said. “I must survey some of the fields, perforce, and decide which farms need new planting.”

His mother seemed to accept this without further ado, and they went on to the stable, where Bayard helped them onto horses, with no argument and very little conversation.

Save only, as Athos was leaving the stable, after the others, Bayard held his sleeve. “Monsieur,” he said, in an almost soundless whisper. “Monsieur, I’m sure it was she that did it. It was she who killed that poor soul of a priest. She’s a madwoman, I tell you, and that full of venom. I wouldn’t be surprised if my poor master met his death by poison or…or other womanly arts,” he added, as though not very sure what those womanly arts might be. “She was that thick with de Bilh. Still is. Why, he came by just this morning, while you were out. I’m sure she means to have him, and for that she disposed of my poor master.”

Before Athos could ascertain if he meant Madame D’Artagnan, and, if so, how could she have killed the priest while she was entertaining de Bilh, D’Artagnan called from outside, “Athos? What delays you?”

“We’ll talk later,” Athos whispered to Bayard, just before letting out with a bellow of, “I’m coming.”

And he rushed forth on his horse. They followed D’Artagnan’s lead, which took them to the threshing floor.

Athos, all the while, tried to understand why Bayard had told him that. Was it only the dislike he bore Madame D’Artagnan? Or could there be another reason. Surely he wouldn’t accuse her like that, with no reason. And if he would…How could he make sense of it? How could she have been entertaining de Bilh all the while attacking the priest? Of course, the priest had been killed very early, so perhaps she’d entertained de Bilh later, while Athos and D’Artagnan had been in their respective rooms—Athos trying not to let the thought emerge that was struggling to make its way up to his mind and D’Artagnan presumably being embarrassed about his parents’ late marriage.

His parents’ marriage. Athos saw in his mind Marie D’Artagnan’s blue eyes, and the picture of the big, bluff gentleman in the great salon at the house. Was it possible that D’Artagnan had emerged like this, short and dark-haired, from such parents? Well, possible enough. Any noble house’s portrait gallery contained more than enough throwbacks to make anyone believe in them. Centuries after the original, a child would be born who was the spitting image of some lost ancestor—more so than of the parents who’d given him life.

He wished very much that the D’Artagnan house had a portrait gallery, and he was furious at himself that he allowed it to work itself through his mind that long. It was like that with him, always. His wife’s fleur-de-lis had triggered his certainty that she was an escaped criminal. He hadn’t entertained any innocent explanation for it.

But the fact that even now, though he tried, he couldn’t think of any way that anyone could get marked with a fleur-de-lis by accident irritated him. He concentrated on nothing but the fields, and their ride, until they stopped by the threshing floor. D’Artagnan dismounted, and the others followed suit. Arriving after them, he dismounted also, and the four of them gathered close in a war council, all the while looking around—to see if anyone might approach.

D’Artagnan told their story, of finding the priest dead and the papers ransacked.

Porthos was the first one to speak, afterwards. “What a very odd thing to do,” he said. “Did they take anything, then?”

“Not that we could find,” D’Artagnan said. “Not even papers—though that was hard to tell, since they tore them all one from the other and scattered them all over the floor.”

“What, and you found nothing at all interesting?” Aramis said.

“No. My parents’ marriage record,” he said. And blushed. He didn’t say anything else, and though Aramis’s gaze met Athos’s over the youth’s head, and though it had a clear question in it, it wasn’t as though Athos could tell him all about the questions the priest had about the validity of the marriage—much less about the date of the D’Artagnans’ marriage. It was not his secret, but D’Artagnan’s.

He found that, as the youth said, one thing was suspecting that he might have been conceived before marriage. Another was knowing it and having proof. He didn’t feel it incumbent upon him to uncover his friend’s shame.

Aramis shrugged at long last, and then spoke, “We found…several things…some of them very odd.”

They all turned to him and it was Aramis’s turn to blush, as though what he’d discovered embarrassed him. “Well…” he said. “Planchet went over the books for the estate, and he…” He shrugged. “You know how your servant is so quick with figures, D’Artagnan.”

“Yes, of course. That’s why I sent him with you,” D’Artagnan answered, bewildered.

“Well…it’s just…do you trust us with everything? Everything that might possibly be found about your parents? I mean…”

D’Artagnan’s eyes opened wide. “How not?” he said. “You are my friends. But what can you possibly have discovered that…”

“Planchet says your father’s books were…not right, that he was going into debt more and more…until about three weeks ago.”

“What do you mean?” D’Artagnan asked. “I know about the debt, of course; that was part of the reason he sent me to Paris, you see, to try to make my fortune and to restore the house’s fortunes in the process, but…How do you mean until then?”

“At that time…about the time the horses arrived in your stables, your father seems to have received a large influx of money,” Aramis said, softly.

“From?”

“Well, I have reason to think from the Cardinal,” Aramis said. “At least there was a letter from Rochefort in his papers, thanking him for information.”

“Information!” D’Artagnan said, and then in a tone that might as well be a bell tolling death, “Rochefort.”

“But yes, Rochefort. You could have anticipated that, my friend,” Aramis said. “Since he’s the éminence grise. He’s the motor of all of the Cardinal’s plans. Doubtless it was he who planned all. It is he, in general, who serves as a liaison with his eminence’s operatives, you know.”

“Yes, but…” D’Artagnan rubbed his hand over his face. “I wonder if he had already planned to find my father or someone in the region or if…” His voice dropped. “Or if it was my letter that he stole in Meung that gave him the idea of recruiting my father into his eminence’s service.”

“Does it matter?” Aramis asked.

“If my father died because of his association with the Cardinal, it matters,” D’Artagnan said, and, before they had time to argue the point, he said, “What was my father doing for the Cardinal? What that would justify a payment in money? What?”

“Well…” Aramis said, softly. “The thing is that he seems to have investigated de Comminges—not sure how, but doubtless by watching the house, or getting Bayard to watch it—for correspondence with la Rochelle. And…he found it.”

“Oh,” D’Artagnan said.

“There was a letter dated from about a week before de Comminges’s death saying that the Cardinal would take care of everything from there, and you see…”

“De Comminges died a week later!” D’Artagnan said, his voice terrible to hear. “Aramis, do you know what that suggests?”

“I know very well, but D’Artagnan, your father didn’t know what the Cardinal was. That much was sure from the fact that he told you to always respect the Cardinal. He can’t have known what methods his eminence would use to dispose of trouble. And besides, if de Comminges was truly communicating with la Rochelle and the English…well…he was a traitor and this once, perhaps the Cardinal’s actions were justified.”

“But…” D’Artagnan said. “The man’s blood would be on my hands.”

Aramis sighed. “Your father’s hands, perhaps, never yours. Though there is reason to think…”

“What? To think what? Do not spare me!”

“Your father and de Comminges fought a duel of honor, the year before you were born. I believe your father injured de Comminges.” He told D’Artagnan, rapidly, of finding a note inviting de Comminges for a duel, and of the stain in it that looked like blood. “So you see, there was old enmity there.”

“Are you asking me to believe my father forged evidence of de Comminges’s treason so as to get him killed?” D’Artagnan asked, his voice hard and brittle. “Aramis. You cannot know what you’re saying.”

“I’m not…No. What I’m saying is that perhaps the injury he’d done your father…perhaps there was bad blood between them and as such your father wouldn’t scruple—”

“To use the might of the kingdom to kill his enemy?” D’Artagnan shook his head. “I know you’ve never met my father, Aramis, but, surely you would understand this is an insult. My father would be far more likely to invite him to another duel.” He took a deep breath and exhaled in a deep, tremulous sigh. “No. No. You must allow me to think he didn’t know what the Cardinal would do. It is the only true explanation.”

Aramis nodded, though Athos thought he didn’t look particularly convinced. Perhaps because Aramis, such as he was, would be able to both challenge someone for a duel and use whatever underhanded means were necessary to bring about their downfall, provided they had annoyed him enough. “The other thing the Cardinal had your father attempt was to get your cousin to break his engagement. I assume this never happened?”

D’Artagnan shook his head. “No, I talked to him and he said he can’t break his engagement.”

“Ah, nothing can stand in the way of true love,” Porthos said.

“It is not love,” D’Artagnan said. “He said he is practically penniless and so he needs to marry his wealthy heiress, you see?” He shrugged.