Death in Gascony (17 page)

A
RAMIS
found Athos in the stables. A shrugging Bayard pointed him that way, with a good deal of babble in Gascon to the extent that he wasn’t sure why monsieur had gone that way but that—at least from what Aramis could make out of the utterly alien tongue—all non-Gascons were crazy anyway.

Going into the stables, Aramis was tempted to agree with the man. Athos, for no reason Aramis could understand, seemed to have acquired a maddening interest in horses. In fact, he was going from stall to stall and from horse to horse, examining hooves and manes, and seemingly studying the creatures as though he intended to buy one.

“Athos,” he said, squinting into the dim stable, trying to see if one or more of the D’Artagnans’ hirelings might lurk in the shadows. What he had to say didn’t bear discussing in front of the servants, not the least because Aramis wasn’t wholly sure of where the servants fell, on which side of the religious divide.

Athos looked up from what he was doing—which looked uncommonly like examining one of the horse’s mouths—to give Aramis his coolest look. “Yes?”

“I must speak to you,” Aramis said, coming fully into the stable, and looking around into its cool, darkened depths to confirm that, indeed, his friend seemed to be alone here. “Listen—I’ve been thinking about religion.”

Athos frowned up at him; a puzzled look that seemed to ask when Aramis
wasn’t
in fact thinking about religion.

Aramis let out a deep breath at this, allowing air to hiss out between his teeth. “It is not funny, Athos. I did not mean that I was thinking about my own religion, or about my relationship to God, or yet about the way in which I might earn salvation. All these are right and proper to concern oneself with and indeed should occupy any right-thinking man’s time, who is concerned for his salvation and who yearns, as all fallen humans must, for that time when he must shed his external, mortal coil and embrace—”

“Aramis, have done,” Athos said, as he moved to look at a bank of saddles against the wall. “What has put you in such a muddle?”

“I am not muddled. I am merely saying that—”

“Yes, yes, that I should be looking forward to the day when I will finally shuffle off my endless mortal coil and face my maker.” Athos permitted himself one of his infuriating smiles that seemed to slide across his lips and vanish leaving only bitterness behind. “Forgive me, my friend, if some of us are not quite that anxious to meet with judgement for what we’ve done.” He lifted a hand before Aramis could protest that Athos underestimated God’s forgiveness. “No, please. You and I have gone the full rounds on it, and it doesn’t befit us any more than a playground discussion. I’ve told you often enough that I would not forgive any divinity willing to forgive
me
.”

“But—”

“No. I will discuss this, or what you wish with you, at another time, but not now, in Gascony, while our friend D’Artagnan might be in danger of his life. And I assume it is something about this, and not about my immortal soul’s longing for forgiveness, that has put you in this state. Please, leave my immortal soul alone, and speak to my mortal body. I presume you mean you were thinking of religion in Gascony?”

Aramis swallowed back unpronounced words and tried to straighten in his mind what he meant to say and what it signified. It was characteristic of Athos to be able to throw Aramis into complete and muddled confusion, far from the strict rules of thought and logic he’d learned back in his seminary days. And Athos had also a way of bringing up near-blasphemous, and yet fascinating, thoughts, such as whether one had the right to refuse forgiveness from God. And then he expected Aramis not to pursue it.

Aramis let out breath again, this time in a great explosion. “I was thinking about the wars of religion,” he said, and as he spoke, he backed up onto a straw pile behind him, and sat on it full force. “And how they wracked this region. And I thought perhaps the whole thing—the Cardinal’s interest in Monsieur D’Artagnan, or yet someone’s wishing to kill D’Artagnan—might not have its origin in just such a time. That it might be, in fact, the wars of religion by other means.”

“You think Monsieur D’Artagnan père was killed because of his religion?” Athos asked, frowning.

“Well, not for sure, but I do think that it might have something to do with that. That it might have something to do with the wars, in some way. That this is why he was working for the Cardinal.”

Athos continued to look over the saddle for a moment, and Aramis thought that the older musketeer was dismissing his idea out of hand, which worried him. If Athos didn’t listen, who would? Porthos was likely to not believe that anyone could kill for a motive as philosophical and distant as beliefs. And D’Artagnan…He had grown up in this region, rifted with religion and war. He probably would not even think of religion as a motive.

But Athos turned around, from looking at the saddle and, dusting his hands together as though some contaminant might have come from the saddle to them, said, “What did you do about this suspicion of yours, Aramis?”

“I—” Aramis said, and frowned at the saddle. “Why were you looking at the horses and the saddles?”

Athos shrugged. “It matters not. We’ll just say that Bayard says the King and the Cardinal sent these to Monsieur D’Artagnan less than a month ago.”

“The King and the Cardinal?” Aramis said, looking at Athos in shock, while he tried to imagine the exact conjunction of circumstances that could bring such an unlikely gift from such unlikely quarters. “Surely…”

“No, surely not. Or at least,” Athos said, shrugging, “it is possible, of course, that his eminence sent them and said they were from him and the King. This far in the provinces, you know, people often don’t know that the King and the Cardinal are not of one and the same mind.” Another shrug. “For that matter, even in the capital, this is not often absolutely sure.”

“No,” Aramis admitted, thinking of the many times when they’d fought for the King only to find that he had united with the Cardinal to reproach them. “But…” He started, feeling that Athos had other suspicions, that he thought something else that he was not saying. Else, why the careful examination of the horses?

“Just an idea I had,” Athos said. “If it were possible, I would send Grimaud to Paris to get word on exactly how these horses got here. To find out, at the very least, if any gift of horses was sent to Monsieur D’Artagnan from the capital. Surely, these many horses, traveling across the mountains,” he shrugged again.

Aramis understood what he meant. Those many horses, traveling over the mountains would be sure to be remarked. And someone in the capital would know too. “But why is it not possible?” he asked. “We could send Grimaud. We have the money.”

Athos sighed heavily. “We were attacked twice on our way here, Aramis. Surely you don’t think D’Artagnan is safe now.”

“Well, we haven’t been attacked since we got here.”

Athos waved a dismissive hand. “D’Artagnan has been watched or in our company all the time, has he not?”

“Well, at night he sleeps in another…”

Athos shook his head. “Wing of the house. Yes, but Aramis, I have taken the liberty of recommending Planchet to sleep across the door of his master’s bedroom. And our excellent Mousqueton has stood in front of that same door, in a very prominent way. Surely, any malefactor would be afraid of attacking D’Artagnan in his own house when he was thus guarded? It could, at the very least, rouse alarm. And here…” He gestured to include the house in his words. “Someone would be bound to know the attackers, or know whence they came.”

“So, you’re saying he hasn’t been attacked because there hasn’t been opportunity.”

“To an extent. I’ve made sure he has at least one of our more bellicose servants with him, or is under their eye, somehow. The one thing I’m sure of, though,” Athos said, “is that the longer we stay here, the more likely he will be attacked. Well. The longer we stay here without finding out who the murderer is. As soon as we find out the real killer, the danger should pass. But that means I don’t have the week to send Grimaud to Paris, and the week to wait for him to come back. And that’s if everything goes well.”

Aramis nodded, understanding. “But then, how can we know where the horses came from? And why should it matter?”

“Well, it should matter,” Athos said, “because we know Monsieur D’Artagnan said he was working for his eminence, and this is the first possible reward we’ve seen around here. If we trace it, we can confirm that he was working for the Cardinal or…Or not.”

“Of course,” Aramis said, finding the flaw in the reasoning. “He might have received his reward from one of the Cardinal’s minions, not from the Cardinal himself, you know?”

“Doubtless,” Athos said. He leaned against the piled-up saddles, comfortably. “But Aramis, I didn’t say my whole goal was to prove they didn’t come from Paris. If we establish where they came from, then we can find out if the master of the house was in his eminence’s pay or not.”

“Oh,” Aramis said. “And you were examining the horses because…”

“I wish to be able to describe them by identifiable characteristics to Porthos, to whom I will give the unpleasant chore—or perhaps he finds it pleasant—of speaking to hostelers and farmers hereabouts, and to stable boys too. And finding out where the horses came from.” He made a face. “One thing I tell you. I took myself this morning, soon as I was wakened, to that pleasant village we were at last, on the way here. The place we had dinner. And no one recalls these many horses coming through. Save some horses from Monsieur de Comminges, which seem to have been sent from his other estate, where, I am to understand, he breeds a few of these sort of cattle.”

“De Comminges,” Aramis said, hearing his own voice echo hollow, like a sermon preached in an ancient and deserted church.

“De Comminges,” Athos said. “Why? Did the name come up in your investigations?”

“I went to the priest this morning,” Aramis said. “Or rather, I went to Mass early morning, at the little church around the corner. I thought perhaps afterwards I could approach the priest and ask questions.”

“And did it work?”

“Well, to an extent, though not immediately.” He frowned. “You see, D’Artagnan turned up at the Mass too.”

“D’Artagnan? By the Blood. Why?”

“When I first saw him,” Aramis said, “I thought he was there for the same reason I was. Or at least, I thought he might have discovered something or read something, perhaps in his father’s papers, which had led him to believe that his father had been involved in religious strife. And therefore, I thought, was there to talk to the priest and find out how the religious situation was in the region.”

“I take it you were wrong in his motives?” Athos said.

“Yes. It turned out he was there simply because Madame D’Artagnan had informed him that his father was killed in front of some witnesses, one of them being the priest. And he was there to check the priest’s account.”

“And how did that…relate?”

“His father seems to have been drunk or irate, or perhaps mad when he came onto the threshing floor,” Aramis said and made a dismissive gesture. “But that is not the whole of it. The thing is, the priest seemed bewildered by Monsieur D’Artagnan’s behavior. Oh, he told us it meant nothing, what with the age of the man and all, but…I wondered…”

He sighed. “At any rate, you see, I could not ask the priest about D’Artagnan’s father’s religion. I told you before—or perhaps I only told Athos—that the praying room Madame D’Artagnan uses has the marks, the spareness of a Protestant meeting room. Which would also explain its existing here, what with the chapel and the church so nearby. But then, if it was a Protestant praying room, why the statue of Saint Quitterie, which is clearly an old statue? And don’t tell me statues can be sold and bought. Porthos did. And I know that. But such praying rooms, for such women, are usually…private and close, and they surround themselves with relics and saints that remind them of childhood.”

“You know a lot of women and saints,” Athos said, in a completely serious manner.

Aramis refused to pursue the bait. “But I couldn’t ask any of that in front of D’Artagnan. So I stayed with him and heard the whole description of the duel, as I’ve told you, and then I left with him, only to backtrack.”

“And what did you find in backtracking?” Athos asked.

Aramis frowned. “That is the problem and why I sought you. I scarce knew what I learned. The man, it seemed, was talking around secrets he could not tell, perhaps secrets he learned in confession. Or…or merely gossip, which he was afraid would hurt someone if revealed.”

“It can happen,” Athos said.

“Undoubtedly. But…oh, it was all maddening.”

Another smile slid across Athos’s lips. “Let’s speak of it, from the beginning. What did he say when you asked him of the D’Artagnans’ religion?”

“That Monsieur D’Artagnan’s mother, from whom the name D’Artagnan comes, was indeed Protestant, and the last of her line. She married into the family, bringing her patrimony and, incidentally, converting. And that way, she made D’Artagnan the junior title of the de Bigorres.”

“Perhaps she had some cousin, or someone, who thought themselves more entitled to the name and who—”

Aramis nodded. “The priest said no. That all her brothers died in the wars, but…”

“But one cannot be sure, no,” Athos said. “It might be worth looking into. But you said it was maddening.”

“There were…other…” He looked over his shoulder to determine there was no one close to the door of the stable, and lowered his voice, nonetheless. “Athos, the priest seemed to imply that our friend was perhaps not of…well…that Madame D’Artagnan might have been with child when she got married.”

As he heard the words leave his lips, he was horrified at pronouncing them, and even more horrified to hear Athos laugh at them. “Come, come, Aramis,” Athos said. “You’re not as naive as you look. Certainly, she might very well have been…with child. These things happen.”