Dying By The Sword Part 16

Athos looked at her and asked the question he had not meant to ask-in fact the question he had meant to never ask, no matter how long he stayed. "How close a friend is Aramis? Are you . . . are you very fond of him?"

She laughed. "Aramis is a good friend, but not . . . that close. He has a disturbing habit of preaching theology in the most awkward of situations, did you know that?"

"Heavens, yes, often in the middle of a duel."

"It wasn't a duel I was thinking of, Monsieur le Comte. But yes. He is, as I said, a good man. And I am not a good woman. But I am . . . very fond of him. And he is very good at providing that excitement that has little or nothing to do with danger." Her eyes were veiled and challenging. "Besides there is something in me that makes me long, very much, to corrupt the innocent. Aramis was only a seminarian, not a priest, but it is close enough for corruption purposes."

Athos wished to despise her for her desires, or at least for speaking of them so freely, but instead, all he could find himself thinking was that he was very much-pa.s.sionately, in fact-jealous of Aramis.

He bowed to her, abruptly, feeling suddenly very old. Old enough to be past the temptations of the flesh. At least that was what his mind insisted on telling him, even if his body refused to listen.

"Your grace," he said, softly. "I believe it is time I should leave. You've answered all my impertinent questions. I should thank you and leave."

She rose from her chair and came up to him, till she was so close that his nose was full of a cloying perfume of violets and something else that he could only think was her own, unique smell. "Must you go?" she asked. "Without dueling?"

"Lady," he said, feeling his heart heavy as lead within him, even as it pumped madly in his chest, even as his arms longed to envelop her. "You don't wish to engage in that sort of duel with me. I blight all I touch."

And then, without warning, she was on her tiptoes and stretching. She just managed to touch her soft, moist lips to his, but the touch of her lips was like the feel of a branding iron, and her hands, on his shoulder, were like the touch of rain after a long and parched summer.

The last of Athos's self-control fled him. His hands, like mad things, too long confined, escaped him, and settled themselves on either side of her waist. He lifted her. She was scarcely heavier than a small child. He pulled her against himself, raising her, so that her b.r.e.a.s.t.s rested, heated and firm, against his hard chest, so that their mouths were at the same level, and his lips could meet hers, and his tongue penetrate the moist haven of her mouth. Her tongue met his, and entwined with it, in a long kiss in which-for Athos-time stopped and breath became something not at all necessary.

He breathed through her, and lived from her touch, and their hearts beat together, one beat echoing each other. Only the moan that escaped him-long and painfully drawn, like the lament of a lost soul, woke him from the idyll. He knew better than to allow his body sway, for every time he did, it meant his heart was yet more bruised. Presently he should grow as much scar tissue on his heart and soul as would make his ability to feel love or friendship even vanish utterly.

He put her down, almost abruptly. She looked bewildered and also a little stunned, as though she'd expected anything but that pa.s.sionate kiss. Athos bowed, not daring speak, not daring look at her again. And bolted for the door like a man escaping a great danger. Not danger to himself, he thought, but danger to her. He should not be trusted when he got past all his self-controls.

Out in the hallway, he was aware of her gaze burning a hole into his back and looked back, for just a moment, to see her framed in the doorway of her lodgings, her hair askew, her hand covering her mouth, either to not allow the sensation to escape, or to hide her dismay.

He realized he could still taste her in his mouth-a hint of honey, a scent like rosemary. Shaking his head, he thought that he was indeed very jealous of Aramis.

Some moments later, climbing down a staircase, he noticed that pa.s.sing valets and maids looked very oddly at him, and realized that his hair was all askew.

He'd just managed to comb it with his fingers and re-bind it, when he reached the kitchens.

And there, in the midst of the steam, the confusion, the screams and instructions that accompanied the tasks of making dinner for all the inhabitants, permanent and temporary, of the royal palace, he saw no Porthos.

He looked again, but it wasn't as though Porthos could hide himself easily. On the best of days, in the middle of a company of identically dressed musketeers, Porthos stood out like an oak in a field of daisies. Though he wasn't that much bigger than everyone else, he was large enough to call attention, his height allowing him at least a head advantage over the next tallest man, and his shoulders easily twice the width of anyone else's shoulders. And his flaming red hair and beard weren't exactly discreet in a world that had a lot more drab brunettes and dull blonds.

After the third sweep of his gaze through the kitchens, he motioned a young man, who looked like he might be a cook's aid, to come close, and asked, in a shout, to be heard against the din of the kitchen, "Have you seen a redheaded musketeer, about this tall?"

The man looked a little confused, then smiled. "Oh, yes, he came in and wanted to talk to the head cook, but it turned out it was the old head cook. The new one doesn't know him. So he said, he said, thank you and never mind and somehow-none of us knows how-he disappeared with a dish of pigeons stewed with apples. He said . . ." He frowned a little. "That he was going to the Bastille. And, you know, the cook, though he is very stern, said that the musketeer must be crazy. He wasn't about to denounce him for the theft of a dish of pigeons."

But Athos wasn't about to devote any time to the pigeons. Instead, his mind was telling him the madman had gone to the Bastille. Exactly what he had promised Athos he wouldn't do. And why should Athos have believed him? No one else seemed to be listening to Athos's warnings.

Standing there, aware he had gone pale, staring at the young cook's aid, he wondered if Porthos would need him. Should he go to the Bastille, anyway, and try to extricate his friend?

But then a thought formed that G.o.d looked after madmen and children, and that Porthos could combine a good deal of both. Athos was starved and didn't wish to steal a dish of pigeons.

At any rate, his imagination was beggared to think what role that dish might play in Porthos's cunning plan. Was it simply something to eat on the way, to keep his strength up for the ordeal of breaking into the Bastille? Or else, did Porthos a.s.sume he would be arrested for at least some time, and in that spirit had decided to take some food with him till his friends could spring him? Alternately, was it the bribe with which he wished to gain his way in to Mousqueton?

Athos could not imagine, and was sure-in fact, would stake his life on it-that no matter what strange ideas he might conjure, they wouldn't approach the amazing and bizarre simplicity of Porthos's plan.

He hoped the G.o.d of madmen was on duty and had a close watch on his friend, but right now, hungover, confused and hungry, Athos wouldn't be any use to Porthos. He would go home and see if Grimaud could prepare him a simple meal. And then, if night advanced and Porthos did not return, then Athos would go looking for him.

Monsieur D'Artagnan's Social Scruples; A Guard's Conscience; Where a Good Head Is an Unreliable a.s.set

D'ARTAGNAN had allowed himself to rest a little before he finished dressing to go to his dinner. Or rather, he'd meant it to be only the shortest of rests, and then to go to his dinner early, and perhaps to give some excuse. But he was still hungover, and the inside of his head felt as though it were entirely covered in cobwebs.

His rest prolonged itself, so that when he woke up the sun had almost set completely and a deep shadow prevailed the room. And Planchet stood by his bed, shifting his weight from foot to foot, as nervous as a cat in a circle of dogs.

As he opened his eyes and gave the boy a puzzled look, Planchet said, in an anxious half whisper. "Monsieur," he said. "Milady has sent a carriage. It is waiting at the door. Her footman is in the entrance room."

D'Artagnan felt his heart skip, both because being picked up in a carriage was a novel experience, and because he couldn't like it. His dreams had been tormented by images of a fleur-de-lis branded into soft, female flesh, and by the look on Athos's face when he spoke of women-that desolate look that was like land after fire, when everything has burned, even the stubble of the fields, and nothing remains behind but barren expanses of nothing.

His wakening mind seemed to have decided that not only did he not want to go to dinner with this beauty with the English t.i.tle, but he would go a long way to avoid it. Even if she weren't Athos's wife, after all, she was a lady-t.i.tled. And while he had nothing against t.i.tled ladies, he thought that he would much prefer to keep his affairs simple. Or rather, his affair, as he only had one.

He thought, as he sat up, of how he would feel if he were to find that his Constance had gone to dinner with some British earl. He rather suspected his sword would come out of its sheath and the earl would better be very good with his own sword, or the world would be one English earl to the less. So how could he do this to Constance? It wasn't as though she could fight a duel with the English countess.

But here was Planchet, informing him that the carriage was waiting, and he told himself his feelings were only the result of the shadows in the room, and of the remains of his hangover. He would probably find she was not Athos's wife at all, but merely some woman who resembled her. Possibly even an Englishwoman.

And while he had no intention at all of betraying his Constance-for all his Constance had ripped up at him like a fishwife at her errant husband-it wouldn't hurt to go and have dinner in the best of society. Nor would it hurt him to know someone with t.i.tle and more power than Constance.

He'd been long enough in the capital to know that much of what happened was the result of whom you knew, and who might be willing to vouch for you. As such, he thought that he would do well to expand his circle. "Tell the footman I will be there as soon as may be," he said.

Rising from bed, he put on the blue venetians that Aramis had enjoined him to buy only last week, and he slipped on the doublet that went with them. He saw his reflection in the lead-paned window, cut up by the lead panes, and didn't see a dazzle of gold and lace shining back at him, and so he hoped that the suit looked distinguished and expensive but not Porthos-like dazzling, as he would hate to appear vulgar.

Pulling his hair back and tying it tightly, he stepped out into the sitting room, where the footman-a tall English-man with pale blond hair-dressed all in livery was waiting for him. He led D'Artagnan, without a word, and D'Artagnan followed him, thinking that this was all very foolish, but he felt like he was a prisoner.

And even though milady's carriage was deep and comfortable-a vehicle fashioned on the latest mode, with arms he didn't recognize painted on the door, and the most cushiony seats he'd ever had the honor of occupying-her black horses perfect and perfectly trained to work with each other, and her driver and the footman absolutely obsequious and formal, he went on feeling as though he were under arrest.

Nor did the impression diminish when he stopped in front of a handsome town house, and he was led down a vast hallway, lined all with candles, to a sitting room where she waited.

She offered him both her hands and greeted him as her savior, the man who had rescued her from a fate worse than death. Wearing a green dress trimmed in different tones of green lace, she was beautiful and elusive as a forest creature. The hair she'd worn loose when he'd last seen her was now gathered in a net of spun gold that shone just slightly darker than the hair it confined. A smell rose from her, heady and subtle like the scent of a summer night. Her bare arms were unornamented save for a simple circle of gold. And she smiled, just enough.

When he had greeted her, bending over her hands as he knew was expected of him, she allowed him to take her in to dinner. There were no other guests.

Her dining room like the rest of the house was perfectly appointed. The servants circled, serving dishes that D'Artagnan had never tasted before, and they all filled his mouth with wonderful flavors.

She asked him questions-about his mother, about his father, about his friends. He tried to answer in a way that wouldn't compromise anyone, should she be, in fact, Athos's wife and an agent of the Cardinal himself. But as the night went on, she dismissed the servants, and he started finding his tongue considerably more difficult to control.

Perhaps it was the wine. After she dismissed the servants, she'd start serving him the wine herself, cup after cup of some sparkling vintage, that tasted deceptively sweet and light. He'd tried to refuse it, but she'd laughed at his gesture, and just added more wine to his cup. And she'd cajoled him and smiled at him, till he did not know what he was doing.

His mind became more clouded than he ever remembered wine making it. Perhaps it was the fact that he'd drunk so much just the day before. Perhaps the drunkenness built on his so recently disordered senses. Or perhaps he simply had no head for liquor, or not such a head as he'd always a.s.sumed he had.

He never understood how, but he found himself in her bed, quite stripped and under the covers, next to her. And she was under the covers too, her hair loose down her back, wearing a nightgown of the sheerest silk.

He tried to speak and said something about Constance. Even he wasn't sure what he'd said, or what it meant, and all it got him in return was laughter. "Your village la.s.s back in Gascony," milady said, ruthlessly, "wouldn't know how to do this." And in saying it, she touched him in a way he didn't even know it was possible to be touched.

Her hands were knowing, as was her mouth, and his confused mind managed to form the thought that there couldn't possibly be any courtesans, any women who lived by the trade of pleasure who were more skilled at the arts of love than this Englishwoman.

And yet not all her efforts could cause him to rise to the occasion. He'd have liked to think that it was his fidelity to Constance, but he was very much afraid it was his excess of alcohol.

When he tried to apologize, milady laughed at him. "Don't worry. It will wear off, and you will still be here, in the morning."

And then she'd blown out the candle, and D'Artagnan had fallen asleep. Naked, in milady's bed.

The Many Uses of a Dish of Pigeons; A Parlor Boarder in the Bastille; A Confused Tale of Young Love

PORTHOS walked along the darkening streets, a dish of pigeons held firmly in his right hand. Fortunately, it was the type of dish they used in the palace kitchens, designed to be carried from the depths of the palace to attics of the palace on the opposing side-that is, designed to preserve as much as possible of its heat and quality even though some poor valet or maid might have to carry it the equivalent of many, many city blocks, before it ever reached its destination. It was made of heavy clay and covered with a lid of heavier clay.

This was part of the reason Porthos had taken it, of course. Had it been in some silver chafing dish, or hidden away in some concoction of painted porcelain, he would have known it was a dish destined for some high personage who had brought his own dishes with him to the palace.

Personages high enough to do that would make life very uncomfortable for the poor valet or maid who waylaid the food. And worse, the plate often being worth far more than the food, they might very well bring up charges against the musketeer who took them.

But this humble clay dish meant that the food was meant to go to one of the palace guests who was either a minor n.o.bleman or perhaps, even, with some luck, an accountant or an artist brought in to serve the court. Which meant it was safe to take.

As for why he'd taken it, Porthos couldn't have explained that exactly until he was well away from the palace and working at a fast clip towards the forbidding facade of the Bastille. Truthfully, his ideas were normally like this, and he rarely knew what he meant to do till he did it, and this time was no different. It was as though some better informed Porthos thought things through up in the depths of Porthos's mind, and, being as unable to translate thought to words as the real Porthos, he only revealed his plans to the musketeer as they came up to the instant when he had to know.

This time, by the time he reached the Bastille, he had a fairly clear idea of what he meant to do-he approached the nearest entrance, carrying his dish of pigeons, and hailed the guard-a dark-haired man whose dingy uniform looked as though it hadn't been washed in several lifetimes. On seeing Porthos so near, he straightened from his previous position of lolling, bonelessly, against the nearest wall. "Holla," he said, and before he could get to the qui vive, Porthos answered back boomingly, "Holla."

And then before the man could say anything more, he launched into a hearty explanation of his circ.u.mstances. "I wish to see my servant Boniface, who also answers to Mousqueton, before this dish of pigeons with apples grows cold."

The guard frowned at him, a squinting expression that seemed to indicate a long-unused brain made some attempt to become active behind the small, porcine eyes. "A . . . a dish of pigeons?" he asked, quiveringly.

"Certainly," Porthos said. "A dish of pigeons. It was prepared expressly by the Princess de-But one must not be indiscreet. The thing is that my dear friend the Princess is very fond of Mousqueton and she prepared him this dish with her very own hands. In the circ.u.mstances, you must realize, my dear man, it would be quite fatal if the dish should grow cold before Mousqueton enjoys it."

The guard looked at Porthos with a disoriented expression, then looked around himself, as if to ascertain his surroundings, and, finally, turning to Porthos said in an outraged voice, "Monsieur! This is the Bastille!"

"Of course," Porthos said, rea.s.suringly. "I was counting on that, because, you see, Mousqueton is held in the Bastille. Indeed, it would be very inconvenient if I were to find I was somewhere else altogether."

"Monsieur!" the man said disbelievingly. "People get . . . get tortured here. There are people who disappear in here and are never heard of." He hissed out these words with a dramatic flair that seemed to indicate his own place of employment awed him. "And you come in with a dish of pigeons for an inmate."

Porthos disciplined his face to slight annoyance. "Oh, I know, it seems fantastical, but as I said, my dear friend, the Princess de-well, she has made this dish of pigeons because she knows Mousqueton favors it. Her own recipe." He smiled, foolishly. "And you know, her husband the Prince de-but no. I can't tell you. Suffice it to say he would have the head of any man who displeased her. For he dotes most forcibly on her. And if she hears I was barred from taking her own special recipe to her own dear Mousqueton . . . well . . . I can't swear how she'll react." He looked sheepish. "I wouldn't swear to it that she won't react badly. A very uncertain temper, has my dear Princess."

The man looked caught between two uncomfortable decisions. He stared at Porthos, then at the dish in Porthos's hand. "Open it up, you. To show there is nothing there but food."

"But . . ." Porthos said. "The Princess. If the dish grows cold or congeals . . ."

"Never mind the Princess. If you don't show us there's nothing dangerous in there, you shall never get in."

Sighing and with a show of much reluctance, Porthos opened the dish. The aroma of the stewed pigeons wafted up. The guard took a deep breath, and Porthos decided it was time for more foolish expatiating. "See how good it looks and how well it smells. She has never told me the recipe, but I believe she uses little currants and just a dash of brandy."

The guard sighed. "You may cover it," he said, then looked at Porthos. "The thing is, monsieur," he said, "that no matter what your Princess thinks, I'm not supposed to let just anyone come in and visit the prisoners. I suppose you don't even know when he was arrested."

"On the contrary," Porthos said. "He was arrested three days ago and a friend of mine has spoken to the Cardinal and ensured that nothing bad will happen to Mousqueton until . . . that is, until his eminence has ascertained a few things relating to the case."

He thought that showing that the Cardinal and Porthos had common friends could not possibly hurt his case, and, in fact, the guard looked at him very intently for a moment, then said, "Oh, one of the parlor boarders! Why didn't you tell me that?"

He walked towards the back of his guard booth, and pulled on a handle on the wall. From somewhere, deep within the bowels of the fortress turned prison, came the sound of a bell tolling. Moments later, a man who looked like he hadn't shaved in at least three years, and whose uniform made the first guard's appear a model of cleanliness and pressing, came to the door at the back of the booth.

"Holla, Gaston," the first guard said. "This gentleman here is here on behalf of a Princess, to see one of the parlor borders-the one they call Boniface or Mousqueton."

"The rat!" Gaston said, which seemed like an odd enough comment, since neither Porthos, nor Mousqueton could be in any way confused with small rodents. He looked Porthos up and down, and shrugged, with a sort of resigned look that seemed to say it wasn't any of his business, and besides, he was there to follow orders. He motioned with his hand, and turned.

Porthos followed, holding onto his dish of pigeons with both hands, to prevent the top from falling off. He followed the guard, noting with interest that they were in a dark, narrow pa.s.sageway and that Porthos had to lower his head at some spots. He heard raucous voices from elsewhere, and there was the sort of smell that suggested that somewhere, not far away, a stream of open sewage flowed. But he didn't see anything really shocking here. The lanterns that illuminated the corridor, at not nearly sufficient intervals, showed dark golden stone wall, marred here and there by what could be moss. There were doors inset in the wall, but no bars and no obvious cells. Somewhere else, someone appeared to be rattling chains.

The guard stopped in front of one of the doors and, slow and deliberate, reached to his belt for a very large key ring. As he selected a key-which seemed to Porthos an impossible task, since they all looked exactly alike-he looked up at Porthos. "They say as he's in for murder, and I must say, sir, I have trouble believing that."

Porthos smiled. "We're quite sure he's innocent," he said. "So you should have trouble believing it."

"It's not that, sir," the man said. "It's just that they said he killed to hide his theft, and I don't think that's possible."

Porthos raised his eyebrows.

The man opened his hands wide. "Well, the thing is, see, sir, that he is such an accomplished and efficient thief that should he choose to steal something, I don't think anyone would have found out. Why, since he's been here, there have been bottles missing from the guard's . . . that is, the place where we keep our bottles and our food. Everyday something else disappears."

Porthos thought this sounded eerily familiar, but did not wish to admit it. Instead he said, in an outraged tone, "How can you know it's him?"

The guard looked at him with a slow, patient look. "Well, sir . . . if we didn't keep finding empty bottles in his cell it would help. But we've looked all over the room for how he might be managing to get up and go to the storage area, and we can't find it. We also cannot understand how he can possibly decide to remain in here, if he has the ability to get out that easily. Some of the men think he's a sorcerer. I, myself, think he's the best thief I've ever met. So I don't believe he would have to kill to conceal a theft."

Porthos nodded, and didn't dare say anything. Part of this, because he was afraid he would laugh if he opened his mouth. The guard sighed, and opened the door. "I don't suppose you're here to free him or to allow him to escape?"

"No, you see, there is this dish of pigeons."

"Pity, because we are starting to feel the loss of wine," the guard said. And, with that, he threw the door open.

What greeted Porthos was not nearly so shocking a spectacle as he expected. In fact, it was not much different from some lodgings he'd endured in wartime. In fact, it was probably better than many such lodgings. It was at least well covered and the narrow bed, up near the tiny, barred window, looked like it had a mattress and at least one set of sheets. And there was no visible vermin jumping off the sheets.

Mousqueton, who had been sitting on the bed, holding a bottle, looked up, in surprise. "Master!" he said, and almost dropped his bottle. "Monsieur Porthos!"

Porthos looked at him and smiled. "I've brought you a plate of pigeons, my dear friend, which the dear Princess prepared for you."

"Madame de C-"

"Discreet, Mousqueton, discreet. And yes, the Princess herself made you these."

Mousqueton smiled. "And I didn't even know she could cook," he said, as he received the covered platter from Porthos's hand.

"I'll stay while he eats," Porthos told the guard, waving him away. He didn't know if it was the bottle in Mousqueton's hand, which had given the guard a pained expression, or if it was the fact that he was being ordered like a lackey that made the man sigh heavily.

"I'll leave the door unlocked," he said, in a tone of great hopefulness. "Perhaps monsieur will be so kind as to take the rather large rat away."