Dying By The Sword Part 13

Something like a roar escaped his lips, a roar that was lost in the laughter of his two captors and whatever pa.s.sed for witty repartee between them. And then Aramis twisted himself around, put his shoulder against the lid of the box, and shoved hard.

Nothing happened. But he was too angry to stop. He'd heard somewhere, though he couldn't remember where, that wood that was still "green," meaning it still had the sap in it, was in fact less resilient than cured wood. He hoped so, but at this point, it did not matter.

Though he had been raised for the monastery, and the soft work of reading the scriptures, preaching, and perhaps writing his own interpretations of it, Aramis had for years now been living by the sword-which is to say by his agility and his strength too. In battle and on guard, and occasionally when he took the holy scriptures to the poor blighted souls who were female and insufficiently able to elude the guard of brothers or husbands, he had often had to lift heavy weights, climb up or down trellises, swing himself from balconies and other feats that demanded one cultivate muscles, as well as brains and piety.

Now his muscles would serve him well, or he would break himself trying. Bracing his feet, he put his now bruised shoulder up once more, and up against the lid of the box. He pushed, as hard as he could, continuously. For a moment he thought the lid was giving, but then he realized that it was his shoulder that had slipped against the wood.

Gritting his teeth, moving around with small movements, he started to turn himself completely around. It had occurred to him that while his back and his shoulders were strong, his legs had carried him about the length of Paris for several years now, several times a day. And their agility and strength had seen him through several duels. He should be able to break this box with his feet, if his shoulder wouldn't operate.

"Oh, listen, Marc, it sounds like he's slithering around inside the box."

"I'm sure he is, Jean. He's trying to crawl out the keyhole."

The first comedian rapped sharply on the box lid. "Eh, Pierre! You'll have to lose quite a bit of weight to fit through that hole."

"Oh, I'm sure there's a part of him that would fit. If Marie is right, it's not that big."

Right, Aramis thought, and pulled his knees as close to his chest as he could, to give his feet as much chance of hitting the lid with force as could be hoped for. It wasn't as much as he would like to employ, since the s.p.a.ce inside the box allowed for very little movement, but all the same, he tried, and pulled back all the way and then he kicked out, with all his might. Aramis thought, and pulled his knees as close to his chest as he could, to give his feet as much chance of hitting the lid with force as could be hoped for. It wasn't as much as he would like to employ, since the s.p.a.ce inside the box allowed for very little movement, but all the same, he tried, and pulled back all the way and then he kicked out, with all his might.

The lid of the box splintered under the soles of his boots, the two rustics yelled and rose from what appeared to be a bench seat up front, and Aramis, completely conscious of being at a disadvantage, jumped out of the box and landed on his feet.

He realized he was standing on an oxcart proceeding at a bucolic pace through a landscape of fields and trees. He also realized that his blond, wavy hair, having come completely loose from its bind, was hiding most of his face. He pulled it back, with his fingers, and turned a very angry face onto his captors.

They were portly middle-aged man, attired in the clothes of peasants. And they seemed to be trying to figure out a way to jump off the cart-which was easier said than done, as they were hemmed in by the bench at which they'd been sitting, the box in which Aramis had been, and the oxen. One of them, looking over his shoulder, looked about ready to vault over the oxen.

But the other one had the presence of mind to pull off his hat, and to bow in an awkward, if willing, way. "Your worship," he said. "Oh, Lord help me, your worship. We didn't know it was you. We thought it was our friend Pierre."

Through gritted teeth, Aramis said. "Only because you refused to listen."

"Yes, your worship. That's us all over. I'm always telling Marc here as we're too stubborn for our own goods and one day we'll come a cropper, won't we, Marc? But you see, Marc's sister, Marie, she is with child by Pierre, who came to the country some time ago when his father . . . but that matters not. He came to the country, and he left Marie with child, and it is said he intends to marry a hussy, as works in the palace of the King. And we thought to ourselves, we thought-if we just go into Paris and grab Pierre, we'll make him see the error of his ways, and he won't leave until he's married Marie all right and tight, see?"

Now Marc too was regarding Aramis with a faintly hopeful air and a completely maniacal grin, and holding his hat, squashed, in his blunt-fingered hand. "You can't refuse to acknowledge," Marc said, "that a brother should love his sister, can you?"

Aramis, eyes blazing, was quite beyond controlling his tongue. "No, but I do think perhaps if your ancestors had indulged in a little less of that, you'd have been able to understand my words before now, wouldn't you?" And seeing Marc's mouth open. "And for the love of heaven, don't call me worship and don't agree with me or I shall not be responsible for my actions."

The sad thing was that though his bruised shoulder still hurt like the blazes, and though he felt as though he'd dislocated something moving about in that infernal box, he found the complete and unredeemable cowardice of the two of them very funny indeed. And if he let himself go, he would start to giggle and guffaw, which could not possibly happen. So he spoke through gritted teeth that, they weren't to know, were being held together against laughter. "Do you still have some wine? And some bread? I haven't eaten since yesterday. And turn this infernal cart around and take me back home."

Jean, or perhaps Marc, resumed his place on the bench of the driver, and started executing what seemed to be a complex maneuver of pulling the reins this way and that. It had absolutely no visible effect, and eventually his comrade got tired and said, "Jean, wait. I'll dispose his . . . I mean . . . this person . . . I mean, Monsieur . . ."

"Aramis."

"Monsieur Aramis," Marc said, not even bothering to enquire the provenance of such a strange name. "I'll dispose Monsieur Aramis with something to eat, and then I'll help you turn the animals around, for you know it's going to take a rod on their noses. A more stubborn couple I never met, if very reliable."

Moments later, Aramis, sitting down with a linen napkin-procured from the depths of another box and surprisingly very clean-on his knees, was the sole proprietor of the delights of good dark bread, a gla.s.s full of wine that, from wherever it had come, was much better than even Athos's vintage, and a handful of dried figs. As hungry as he was, this seemed to him like a banquet from the G.o.ds. And as for the spectacle of watching the two men trying to turn around oxen that were fully as stubborn as they were, it was doubtless as good as anything the theater had to offer.

Aramis, having also found his sword and his lost hat at the bottom of the cart, was starting to feel very much like himself again. So much so that, when the men had accomplished their purpose of getting the oxen turned around, he'd had time to think of how to take advantage of this very strange situation. He must talk to them. If Pierre was Pierre Langelier, and Aramis was almost sure he was, then Aramis would be able to find out more about the man, more about what interested him, and more about what might have caused the murder of the armorer than he would have otherwise been able to find out.

So when they took their place back on the bench, he said, "So, you took the oxen all the way into Paris?" he was marveling at the feat of logistics, since most streets in Paris were not wide enough for a carriage, much less a broad oxcart. And the idea of having to turn the oxen at close confines, even in a main street, caused Aramis to shudder.

They shook their heads. "No, your musketeerness," Jean said. "We left it with my cousin, just on the outskirts, you know . . . And we went into the city on our own."

He gave them an appraising look. "And you carried me out in that box by the force of your arms?" They looked st.u.r.dy enough, but not that strong. From where they'd been to the outskirts of Paris it would have taken at least an hour's walk and maybe more.

Jean squirmed and Marc cast a significant look at Aramis's sword. "Well . . . it wasn't really like that. You see, we didn't know what we were going to do at first, so we thought, you know, we'll see if we can find Pierre and talk to him. And this we did do last night."

"When you say Pierre, it is Pierre Langelier you speak of?" Aramis asked, taking a bite of the fig and savoring its delicate sweetness. "The armorer whose father was killed?"

"Yeah," Jean said. "You see . . . we heard about it. We have cousins in the city and . . ." He shrugged. "So we knew that Pierre had come into his inheritance. And he's a fine armorer, don't get me wrong your worsh . . . your musketeerness. But he is that fierce for the gaming, that, you know, I think he might have to sell the workshop, and all the swords and all the tools in it, just to be able to pay back his debts. And that's if his father didn't leave a provision in his will for his precious Faustine, which I will promise you he did, because he thought the sun rose and fell out of the brat's crossed eyes.

"So we thought . . . we go and talk to Pierre, like a reasonable human being, no? And we point out to him that Marie won't come to him barefoot, as it were, but well shod, and with a little something on the tip of her shoe."

Marc must have seen Aramis's utterly confused look, as he tried to imagine what the girl's choice in footwear would have to say to the case and particularly what she might have in the tip of her shoe. Everything that he could think of that one might catch on the tip of one's shoe weren't anything to brag about. "What Jean means," he said, in the tone of a man lecturing to the mentally impaired, "is that my sister has a dowry. My parents were wealthy farmers, and friends of Monsieur Langelier. And if Pierre married Marie he would be able to pay all his debts, see? And keep the workshop and his trade and reputation and his means of making more money. So we thought . . . well . . . he cannot resist it, can he?"

"And he didn't resist it . . . in a way," Jean said. "Instead, when we talked to him, he sounded very interested. Many questions about what Marie would bring, and how it would be bound and all."

"He's a mercenary fool," Marc said, in a tone of annoyance. "Any man privileged to enjoy Marie's love . . . but it matters not. Such as he is, he's my nephew's father, and so I said, yes, of course, Pierre, we'll give you anything you want as soon as you marry Marie. And he said he would come with us at nightfall and do it. But, instead, he disappeared, don't you know? Just vanished. We waited and waited for him, and finally we saw you, monsieur, and you see, we thought that with you being roughly the same build, and both of you having straw hair, at least as it appeared to us by moonlight, you would for sure be Pierre."

"For which you felt yourselves justified to hit me on the head and carry me out of the city . . . in your arms? Wouldn't that have attracted attention? Or had you had the providence to carry this charming clothes press in?"

Marc sighed. "No, it was like this-when we saw you looking around we thought of a sure thing it was Pierre. We didn't . . . you don't wear the uniform like the other musketeers wear the uniform, so we never thought that it could be . . ."

"A uniform," Aramis said. "I quite comprehend your point. So you thought it would be a great idea to hit me over the head. And afterwards?"

"Well, afterwards," Jean said. "We thought-what we really need is a good clothes press . . . and we can hide him in it. And then if we can find someone to lend us a wheelbarrow."

"And you found a clothes press and a wheelbarrow in the dead of night, in the middle of Paris? I take my hat off to you gentlemen," he said, though he didn't really, because frankly, he was afraid they might think of something else creative to do with his hat or his head. Like, lift his hat and hit him on his head once more.

"Well," Jean said. "I do have cousins in the neighborhood, so yes. We borrowed a clothes press, and a wheelbarrow."

The idea of himself being wheeled about by these geniuses, in the middle of the night, made Aramis very angry, but it also gave him an incongruous wish to laugh. And behind all this, he was thinking that Pierre Langelier definitely would bear more looking into. Very closely.

Meanwhile, he looked at his erstwhile captors. "Well," he said. "You've made a right muddle of it. For all you know, Langelier is in his workshop, waiting anxiously to tie the knot with your sister, while you two are running about the countryside, ignoring the complaints of the musketeer you've sequestered in a box."

"I wouldn't say we were running," Marc said. "Not with Bossy and Betsy pulling us. They're used to the plow, somewhat, but they're the slowest-" He caught the look in Aramis's eyes and stopped short.

"Right," Aramis said, sighing. "Just get me to Paris as soon as humanly possible, and we will never speak of this debacle again." And he hoped, hoped with all his heart, hoped on the fervent edge of prayer, that he would find all his friends alive and well.

The Etiquette of Visiting a n.o.ble Foreigner; Where D'Artagnan's Heart and Mind War; What Planchet Knows

D'ARTAGNAN, coming into his lodgings, was surprised to see Planchet coming in, also, from the other direction. And even more surprised when the young man's spotty, gawky face wreathed in smiles. "Oh, sir, you are well. Oh, sir, grace a Dieu grace a Dieu."

D'Artagnan frowned intently at him. "Have you taken leave of your senses? Why shouldn't I be well?"

"It is only," Planchet said, "with the goings on at the palace, and knowing you had been there and alone, earlier in the day, I was afraid you were either dead, or that you'd been taken as Mousqueton was taken."

D'Artagnan decided that Planchet had been listening too much to Grimaud and Athos, who, frankly, both acted as if they were all dancing on the edge of the gallows. "Humor me, Planchet. Explain to me why I should be taken as Mousqueton was taken?"

"Why, for murder!" Planchet said.

"It might interest you to know," D'Artagnan said, as he unlocked his door and allowed Planchet to go in before him, more because he wanted to keep an eye on the young man than because he was so zany as to give his servant precedence, "that I have not in fact murdered anyone. No, in fact, I haven't even come close to murdering anyone. In point of truth, I haven't even seen anyone angry at anyone else. That is, since a minor incident outside the royal palace walls," he added, remembering the incident and wondering if it was the exaggerated report of it that had caused Planchet to take such a fright. "I went to the royal palace and spoke to Madame Bonacieux who was being most unreasonable, mostly because she seemed to think I'd left her to go fight a duel. I'm not even sure what she thought. And then I left there and I went to a tavern." Better not tell Planchet about any alarming incidents. "Where I made a very good dinner on boiled beef. And now I'm home, and I understand the angelic choirs can be heard to rejoice."

But Planchet had stopped on the stairs, just two steps ahead of him, and now dropped on his behind on the step. He looked at D'Artagnan, his face pale. "So, you . . . you did not in fact . . . That is . . ."

"I did not kill anyone?"

"No," Planchet said, and it was almost a wail. "You haven't heard about Hermengarde?"

"What about Hermengarde?" D'Artagnan asked.

Planchet looked up at him, his normally quick eyes now arrested and slow. He reached inside his sleeve for a handkerchief and mopped his forehead, though no sweat was visible upon it. "Monsieur, she was found in the little garden where . . . where they say you spoke to her. She was run through. They think by a sword. There is talk . . . there were rumors that Monsieur Porthos had killed her to prevent her speaking about something with Mousqueton. I had to say that . . . that is, I had to tell them that it could not be so, because Monsieur Porthos and Monsieur Athos too were still asleep when we got the message asking you to come to the palace. Grimaud woke them and I . . ." He shrugged. "I went along to find out what had happened. Behind them, as it were. And then I came here, because I kept hearing you'd talked to Hermengarde today and I wondered . . ."

"You wondered!" D'Artagnan repeated. He thought of the little maid, her sparkling eyes, her unfailing sense of humor. He couldn't imagine killing her. He couldn't imagine anyone doing it.

"Oh, not if you had done it, sir," Planchet said. "I wondered where you'd been and with whom. And if they . . ." He shrugged.

"I was . . . I was on the street and then in a tavern. The Cheval D'Or, you know, where . . ."

"They know you there?"

"Of a certainty they do. I owe them quite a hefty sum on account."

Planchet looked relieved, probably the first time that the estimable young man, who had once been apprenticed as clerk to an accountant, looked relieved at the mention of debt. "Good. Then they know you couldn't have gone back and killed Hermengarde. We were worried . . . I mean . . . I was worried. And perhaps Monsieur Porthos and Athos were worried too."

"Athos thought I might have killed her?"

Planchet looked up and shook his head. "I don't think so. You know, with Monsieur Athos it is sometimes devilishly hard to tell what's pa.s.sing in his brain."

"Yes. I do know that. And I suspect it's intentional. He'd rather we don't see within."

Planchet nodded, then shrugged. "At any rate, I'm glad you were with people, all three of you, who can vouch for your innocence." He stood up, and started up the stairs again, holding on to the wall. "Though I'm not at all glad about Hermengarde, of course, and I wonder how Mousqueton will take it. He thought the sun rose and set on the girl."

D'Artagnan nodded. It would be hard on Mousqueton. And then he thought over what Planchet had said. "You said the three of us. Where is Monsieur Aramis?"

Planchet shook his head. "He left late at night," he said. "After the rest of you went to sleep."

"The devil!" D'Artagnan said, thinking that it was quite possible his friend had no one to vouch for him. Not that anyone could believe that either Aramis, or indeed any of the musketeers, could have killed the girl, but people would insist on believing impossible things, after all. "Where can he have gone?"

Planchet looked back, a most unbecoming flush on his face. "I don't know, monsieur, but this being Monsieur Aramis, I would say for sure that he's not been alone."

"Oh, of that I'm very sure. I just hope whoever his companion is, she is able to own it."

"There is that," Planchet said.

They'd arrived at the top of the stairs, where Planchet turned around to look at D'Artagnan. "What I don't understand, sir, is why you came here, and not to Monsieur Athos's home. "I thought all of you had agreed that . . ."

D'Artagnan shrugged. "Indeed, I intend to go there, as soon as I've picked some clothes." He looked at the boy. "I've been invited to dinner at the home of a lady for whom I did a trifling favor this morning."

He told Planchet the whole story, as they went within, to D'Artagnan's room. Now, while D'Artagnan knew his servant was inexperienced-at least he hoped he was, though he'd seen the boy eye the tavern wenches with a hungry eye once or twice-he'd never known him to be exactly prudish. So it was odd that, as his story progressed, he found Planchet becoming redder and redder, till presently he was looking at D'Artagnan with an odd, sheepish look.

"Oh, come, Planchet," he said. "You can't be that offended. After all, Madame Bonacieux spends the night here two or three times a week, and you do no more than make sure she's had dinner, before you show her into my room."

Planchet sighed. "And have you thought, sir, on Madame Bonacieux and . . . and what she will feel about all this?"

D'Artagnan, who had thought of scarcely anything else, shook his head resolutely. "Not at all. Her behavior to me-her implication that I had lied to her in order to avoid going to the palace and fighting a duel, her cruelty in sending me way . . . I must say, Planchet, that your loyalty becomes you, but it would be by far a better thing if the lady herself had any notion of loyalty or . . . or care for me."

"She was crying when we got to the palace," Planchet said. "She sent for you to tell you about Hermengarde, and she was crying when we got there."

She was? D'Artagnan thought, as his hopeful heart leapt. But what he said, in restrained tones, was, "Good G.o.d, of course she was. You can't think that she's a monster. She might not have known Hermengarde very well, but I'm sure she'd paid special attention to the girl, since the girl was, after all, Mousqueton's lover." And on that he thought that Hermengarde had also, after all, been carrying Mousqueton's child, and his heart turned within him in horror. D'Artagnan thought, as his hopeful heart leapt. But what he said, in restrained tones, was, "Good G.o.d, of course she was. You can't think that she's a monster. She might not have known Hermengarde very well, but I'm sure she'd paid special attention to the girl, since the girl was, after all, Mousqueton's lover." And on that he thought that Hermengarde had also, after all, been carrying Mousqueton's child, and his heart turned within him in horror.

"It wasn't that," Planchet said. "I was nearby enough as Monsieur Athos spoke to her, and she said . . . she said she'd been remorseful over what she'd told you."

Remorseful, D'Artagnan's heart said, with relish, cherishing the word, but his mind had control of his mouth, which said, disdainfully, "She very well should be remorseful. She behaved to me as a veritable shrew." D'Artagnan's heart said, with relish, cherishing the word, but his mind had control of his mouth, which said, disdainfully, "She very well should be remorseful. She behaved to me as a veritable shrew."

"Yes, but . . ." Planchet said. "From what I understand, women are like that. When they really care, at least. Not that I know much about women, of course, but . . . but . . . I've seen Madame Coquenard take Monsieur Porthos down a peg or two, and he, that giant that he is, he just stands there and takes it humbly, and you know, in the end, she didn't mean to tear him down at all, but was, you know, all in solicitude for him."

D'Artagnan, who had seen it too, could imagine his great giant of a friend standing there, if Athenais told him that he had avoided meeting her to go to a duel. It would all be, "I understand what you're saying, my pigeon." And "I regret having grieved you, my dearest." And in the end, somehow, she would be still, and he would be able to speak, and tell her what had really happened.

Unfortunately, D'Artagnan was not Porthos. His Gascon temper would never allow him to stand meekly by and listen to himself being berated on grounds that were not only untruthful, but which made no sense whatsoever. But in his mind, he very much envied Porthos.

Having selected a bright blue suit from his armoire, he set it on the bed, removed his arm from its sling, and told Planchet, "I'm going to need some help dressing. You see, my arm is very painful still."

"Of course, sir," Planchet said, joining action to words. As he stripped his master of his coat and shirt, and started to slip fresh ones on, he said, "Monsieur?"

D'Artagnan gave him a sharp look. It was obvious that Planchet wanted to tell him something, and was equally afraid of saying anything. The combination was so unusual between the two youths, who, while master and servant, were close enough in age to speak with a disarming lack of ceremony when no one else was present, that it alarmed D'Artagnan.

"Yes, Planchet?" he said, very quietly, trying not to scare away whatever confidence was coming.

"Well, monsieur," Planchet said, and then, as though losing all courage. "Well . . ."

"Planchet, if you say 'well' once more or hesitate to tell me what's on your mind I shall flog you," D'Artagnan said. And, as the young man widened frightened eyes at him, added, "Don't think I can't. A lot of musketeers-a lot of n.o.blemen-thrash their servants."

"You couldn't," Planchet said, softly. "Not you."

"Don't try my patience too high," D'Artagnan said, then seriously, "I know something is eating at you, Planchet. I'm not that cloddish. Tell me what it is. If you feel that much of a need to tell me something, chances are it is something I need to know."

Planchet sighed, a heavy, doleful sigh, full, so it seemed, of the cares of the world. "Monsieur, it is only that I have a bad habit of listening at doors."

D'Artagnan grinned. "Oh, no need at all to tell me that, Planchet. I never say anything with you in the house that I should not wish you to know."

"Yes, yes, monsieur. But the other gentlemen, your friends, do not know that."

"I see. What have you listened to?"

Planchet sighed again. "How castaway were you last night, sir? What is the last thing you remember?"