Death in Gascony (22 page)

R
IDING
through the broad, straight roads of the bastide, Porthos thought it a great improvement on Paris. The smiling girls ogling him from the side of the road didn’t hurt either.

“I think if you end up staying here, D’Artagnan, I’ll have to visit you very often.”

They were on horseback, riding slowly through the street, two abreast, Porthos and Athos at the back and Aramis and D’Artagnan in front.

From behind, Athos could see D’Artagnan’s shoulders shake. “You will be very welcome to, Porthos,” he called out, in such a tone that Athos felt sure the shake had been laughter.

And Athos thought it a good time to talk to Porthos, casting his voice lower than he would if he wished for D’Artagnan and Aramis to hear it. “Porthos,” he said.

The redhead turned. Athos half expected him to boom a demand that Athos speak, but Porthos’s face held polite enquiry.

“Porthos, I’d like you to…look around and ask at the stables around here. I have a description of some horses. I want you to find from where they might have come. Do you think you could do that?”

“Assuredly, I can do it, but why?”

“They are in Monsieur D’Artagnan’s stables and…”

“Ah, the ones that Bayard thinks the Cardinal sent to him?”

“Exactly so. I have a feeling this is not quite right. I’m not absolutely sure, mind you, but I have reason to suspect it.”

“Reasons?”

“The way the horses are shod seems local work, but beyond that, no one remembers a caravan of horses passing through.”

“Oh. I’ll ask then.”

“Thank you, Porthos. I’ll be glad to give you the list of the horses. I wrote it down.” He saw Porthos make a face. Reading was not one of his favorite pastimes. But he could read, and well enough. Particularly when it was only a list of horse characteristics.

“Ah, well met, D’Artagnan,” a sonorous voice with a strong Gascon accent called from in front of them.

Athos looked that way to see the dark man they’d first glimpsed when arriving in the region. In contrast to then, when he’d ridden by them as though they’d been the dirt under his horse’s hooves, he now looked at them—or at least at D’Artagnan—with something very close to affability.

“Well met. You did not pay us a visit when you first arrived.”

“I only arrived yesterday,” D’Artagnan called out. “I’ve had little enough time to visit.”

His voice sounded bewildered. Athos had gathered from his conversations with D’Artagnan before that de Comminges was not exactly on visiting terms with any of the neighborhood.

“Are you on an urgent errand, then?” he asked. Just like the time they’d seen him before, the dark-haired man was dressed entirely in black from head to toe. Even his horse was a well brushed, glossy black mare.

“I was going to see Father Urtou,” D’Artagnan said. And then, as though realizing that this might not be the most common of errands, “He was present when my father died and there’re some details I don’t quite understand.”

De Comminges lowered his head, not quite a nod, just acknowledgment. “Surely Father Urtou can wait?” he asked. “You can come to my house and drink a glass of wine with me, and tell me the news of the capital. We’re both bereaved, you know, for my father died just a week before yours.”

“Yes…I’ve heard,” D’Artagnan said. “But…”

“Come, do me the honor. You know that your cousin and I will be getting married soon, and then we’ll be as good as family.” He made what, in another man, might be an expansive gesture with his black-gloved hand.

Athos, behind D’Artagnan, could not tell him that they might as well comply with this invitation. There was always the chance they’d hear something—some scrap of local gossip—which would help with the crime. But more than that, he had a strong feeling if they didn’t go with de Comminges now, de Comminges would insist on accompanying them to Father Urtou’s. And then, surely, the good priest would not say anything of any consequence.

As though his thought had struck the wrong person, de Comminges said, “Perhaps I’ll accompany you to the priest’s, and then you’ll consent to come to my house for a glass of wine?”

“No,” D’Artagnan said.

It was almost a shout, and he must have realized the impropriety of it, because immediately after, he controlled his voice. “No. We’ll come with you now. There is no reason to drag you with us to Father Urtou’s or to scare the poor creature halfway to death with the visit of the greatest lord in this region.” The way he said it, it was part concession and part praise.

“Ah,” de Comminges said, and smiled, a smile that seemed to be part joy and part relief. “Ah, very well, then. If you’ll make me known to your friends?”

D’Artagnan, turning his horse sideways, on the street, so he could face both sides at once, said, “Le Comte Sever de Comminges, I’d like to make known to you my friends, Athos, Porthos and Aramis.”

Each of the musketeers touched his hat in turn. If de Comminges found their names strange he didn’t say anything. His eyes did linger on Athos for a moment, but Athos was used to that reaction. It wasn’t that every nobleman knew each other by look—or even by name—but Athos knew his family was old and respected enough that something about his appearance told people he was a nobleman.

“A pleasure, sirs,” Sever de Comminges said. “And now, if you will follow me.” And, having thus spoken, he turned and set an easy pace, out of the bastide and along the roads of the surrounding countryside.

The day was mild for the winter, a yellow sun beating down warmly upon the denuded fields and the backs of the musketeers, as they left the bastide well behind, crossed a small river, and then rounded one of the ubiquitous local hillocks.

Athos thought the way was too long by far, certainly for a simple drink, but D’Artagnan didn’t look alarmed, and therefore Athos held his peace. Presently they came in sight of a vast, sprawling and untidy stone palace.

That it was a palace there could be no argument. It was proclaimed by the vastness of the place, whose outbuildings, from stables to other various dependencies, were far more extensive than all of D’Artagnan’s house. In fact it was so vast that Athos, who had recently visited his childhood friend, the Duke de Dreux, at his seat, had to admit this palace was larger than de Dreux’s.

On the other hand, it was also more untidy. De Dreux’s palace had been built and maintained according to the best educated taste of the time and conforming to the artistic dictates of Greece and Rome.

The de Comminges home conformed to no dictates whatsover, of good or bad taste, save perhaps the dictates of their consciences or, more likely, the internal drive of their emotions and minds. Low slung, made of stone of varying corners, it had a broad staircase leading to the front door, but it was longer on the south than on the north side, and it was made of stones of different colors.

The owner of the house rode resolutely to the extreme south of the house, where he dismounted and called out something that might be someone’s name. Five liveried servants came running out of the stables—wearing black uniforms which looked too clean to ever have been near a stable, much less in it.

However, the five boys took charge of their horses with expert motions, and Athos felt reassured they weren’t merely decorative.

“If you’ll accompany me, monsieurs,” de Comminges said, as he led them up along the side of the building, pointing casually at the part that was a different color. “This is the oldest part of the house. We think it has been here since the time of the Romans. In fact, from some mosaic work on the floor, we believe it was once upon a time part of a Roman villa. It probably belonged to my family, since we’ve been here ever since the Romans displaced the native Novempopuli. We use this part for storage.” He hurried along the house, which Athos could now see represented probably close to two thousand years of building styles.

When they started up the broad staircase to the front entrance, someone opened the oak door and stepped aside, to allow them to pass within.

Inside, the hall was all marble and columns, if not in the best taste of Greece and Rome, at least definitely acknowledging Greece and Rome in its lines and appearance.

De Comminges crossed it, and admitted them into a broad room scattered with chairs upholstered in delicately peach colored silk. “Have a seat,” he said. “I will have refreshments brought in.”

All along, since they’d entered the house, Athos had the feeling of shadows, scurrying just out of sight, moving this and arranging that. He had a feeling servitors had rushed into this room, just ahead of them, to make sure everything was according to the master’s orders.

Now, he noted a shadow detaching from the thicker shadows near the walls to listen to the lord’s orders for refreshments.

He could not imagine living like that. In fact, in his most patriarchal moments, in his own domain, he would have been very alarmed had any of his servants lurked in the shadows, waiting to hear his orders.

But Monsieur de Comminges was clearly satisfied with himself and his arrangements, as he seated himself and leaned against his chair, and started talking to them.

Talking to them was the appropriate term, or perhaps talking at them. For someone who’d been so anxious to hear about D’Artagnan’s experience in the capital and his news from Paris, he seemed more interested in telling them what the situation was.

“Richelieu is a great man,” he said, unselfconsciously branding himself with the mark of their enemies. “He is making France the most powerful country in the world.”

Porthos squirmed in his chair like a child having trouble sitting still at church. “And himself the most powerful man in it,” he grumbled.

“Perhaps,” de Comminges said. “But surely his diligence bears reward. Of course, I do not approve of his jumping ahead of so many men of higher rank, but sometimes sheer intelligence and bravery must be acknowledged.”

“Or at least intelligence and effrontery,” Aramis said, between his teeth, just loud enough to be heard, just low enough that it couldn’t be acknowledged.

De Comminges didn’t seem to take offense—he also didn’t appear to see any humor in their comments—instead, he allowed his dark, penetrating eyes to sweep to Aramis. “Well, perhaps, but you must admit he did put an end to the wars of religion, and he’s doing remarkably sound work in clearing off the last few pockets of dissent.

“You surprise me,” Athos said, spying his chance to move the conversation away from the Cardinal and the gauche and provoking comments his friends were quite capable of making.

“I do?” de Comminges asked, looking at him surprised.

“Yes, with your talk about his putting down the religious dissent. Surely you must know, his eminence has practically eradicated the last Protestant nobility.”

De Comminges looked at him puzzled. “And why should I object to that?”

“I was under the impression your lordship’s father had been Protestant?”

De Comminges laughed, a curt bark. “Oh, no. At least, I suppose his father was, the same way that king Henri IV was Protestant. But like him, my grandfather thought that Paris was worth a Mass, and he converted before they took Paris. My father, as indeed my brother and I were brought up in the Catholic religion.”

“Indeed?” Aramis asked. “Father Urtou seemed to think otherwise.”

Athos could have kicked Aramis on the instant—for why would he want to discuss his talk to the priest with this man who seemed so strangely sympathetic to the Cardinal? To own the truth, Aramis also looked, immediately, like he would like to have swallowed his own tongue.

“You discussed my family’s religion with the priest?” Monsieur de Comminges asked, smoothly. And though his hand didn’t go to hilt of his sword, it nonetheless gave the impression of wishing to.

“Not your family in particular,” Aramis said. “I beg your pardon if I fostered that impression. You see, I was once a seminarian and I’m only sojourning in the musketeers till I deem the time right for me to take orders. So, you see…I am interested in religion. And as such, I talked to the priest about what the wars of religion were like in this part of the country which suffered so much from them.”

“Ah, yes,” Monsieur de Comminges said, and appeared somewhere between relieved and suspicious. “It was a terrible scourge in Gascony.”

At that moment several servants entered, one carrying a tray of dainties, and the other a tray of bottles and cups. Athos decided that no matter how cumbersome the social situation might be, at least they would get good wine.

And good wine it was, which he sipped as he listened to Aramis and de Comminges each trying to impress the other with how much he knew of the various Protestant sects, and how well he understood the various guerrillas and vendettas which had crisscrossed the Gascon countryside.

They sat and drank for hours and listened to de Comminges talk and—sometimes—argue with Aramis. If they’d spent this long drinking with anyone else, Athos thought they’d be well on their way to friendship or at least cordiality. But there was no such with de Comminges.

For all his insistence on bringing them here and giving them refreshments, he remained about as cordial and warm as a lizard. Athos wondered why. Had he no social feelings? And if not, why bring them here?

“I
think,” D’Artagnan said, when he judged they were far enough from the de Comminges palace that they would not be heard by either lord or retainer, “that he wanted to see me and evaluate me as a rival.”

“A rival?” Aramis asked, sounding bewildered. He was very flushed, which looked odd with his pale skin and hair. “Why a rival?”

“He is engaged to my cousin Irene,” D’Artagnan explained. “And she and I…Well, I used to think I was in love with her.”

“I see,” Aramis said, with not a little of amusement in his voice. “And was she in love with you?”

“Well, she never thought so,” D’Artagnan said. “Though the last time I saw her, just this morning, she seemed to have changed her mind and been ready to throw everything over, including her chances at being a countess, for the chance of being Madame D’Artagnan.”

He didn’t know whether to be offended or amused that Aramis went from looking mocking to looking shocked. “Indeed?” he asked. “And why does she crave such an honor?”

D’Artagnan shrugged. For a moment—for the briefest of thoughts—he considered telling Aramis that of course any woman would give up on wealth and a title for the sake of marrying him, but he decided against it. Either Aramis would laugh at his joke—which would make him feel badly—or he wouldn’t, which would be worse because then he would know that Aramis had decided to humor a madman.

“I don’t think she had any real interest in marrying me,” he said, simply. “But that, for whatever reason, she seems to be terrified of marrying Sever de Comminges.”

“Ah. Has he done anything in particular to terrify her?” Aramis asked.

“Except perhaps discussed theology with her,” Porthos said.

D’Artagnan turned to smile at Porthos, but then answered Aramis. “I don’t know,” he said, frowning. “Nothing that she would admit to me, except to tell me she feels uneasy and that she would rather marry anyone at all, even Sever’s younger brother, Geoffroi.”

Athos, on the other side of Aramis, was frowning. “I wonder why. I will grant you he is no sparkling conversationalist, but then again few noblemen are, at any level. And surely…”

D’Artagnan smiled. “I don’t think that’s it at all. You see, she’s been engaged to Sever ever since she was six years old. We’re all of an age, Sever, Irene and myself.”

“Truly?” Aramis asked. “He’s only your age? I would have taken him for being older than I, myself.”

D’Artagnan shook his head. “He always looked older than his years,” he said. “But he is only my age. And his parents engaged him to Irene when they were both still small children. Being engaged feels normal to Irene. It has ever been a part of her childhood. It’s marrying that scares her. And since it is Sever she’s engaged to…”

“She’s scared of Sever,” Athos finished, with one of his half smiles.

“Yes. And since she must be behaving very strangely, Sever wanted to look me over and see what his rival was. Even though,” he added, with a mock sigh, “the last time I was in Irene’s high favor was when I kissed her behind a hay bale just before her parents got her engaged.”

“I see,” Athos said.

“That is quite likely the explanation,” Aramis said.

“Shouldn’t we hurry home, though?” Porthos said, looking at the red-tinged sky. “Surely your mother will have supper ready and we don’t want to keep her waiting. It wouldn’t be courteous.”

D’Artagnan smiled at Porthos, and spurred his horse on.

They rode for quite a while, at speeds that made it too difficult to keep up any type of conversation. And then, as they approached the bastide, two people ran in front of them, on the road, with no warning.

Athos and Aramis who had the lead twisted their horses suddenly sideways to avoid running the two people over, while Porthos and D’Artagnan pulled their horses up short, suddenly.

When everyone was stopped and the horses had quieted, Athos dismounted and started going over his mount, carefully. “Fools,” he threw at the two people who, shocked, still stood in the middle of the road, holding on to each other. “You could have caused me to lame my horse.”

He returned to his inspection, while D’Artagnan looked at the two. It was a man and a girl, both enveloped in heavy winter cloaks. But from beneath the hood of the girl’s cloak peeked a lock of brassy blond hair. “Irene,” he said.

There was a sound of fear from within the hood, and then the male in the other cloak stepped forward, pulling back his hood to reveal an unexceptionable olive-skinned face, with dark eyes and lank black hair delineating it.

“If you take offense at your cousin’s company,” he said, “I take full responsibility. Call me out, only leave her out of this and do not tell her parents.”

It was all D’Artagnan could do not to laugh. In the countenance of the young man facing him, he recognized Geoffroi de Comminges who must be all of fifteen if that much, and who looked almost exactly like his brother, or at least he would look like his brother if his brother were capable of human expressions.

He was looking at D’Artagnan, all solemn eyes and responsible-looking face, waiting, D’Artagnan was sure of it, for a call to duel.

“Easy, de Comminges, I don’t duel babies.”

The young man colored deeply, as D’Artagnan himself would have done at his age. And, as D’Artagnan at his age, he put his hand on the hilt of his sword, and said, “If you want to see how much of a baby I am, do me the honor of crossing swords with me.”

“Can’t be done,” D’Artagnan said. “It is my honor at stake. If I killed you, they would accuse me of having despoiled youth and innocence. No, you must wait. In two years, if you’re still hot to duel me, I’ll accept your challenge, but not now.”

“And besides,” Porthos rumbled from beside D’Artagnan, “we just came from your brother’s house and it would be a very poor return for his hospitality.”

“You just came from my brother’s house?” the boy asked, dropping his hand from his sword and looking at them, stricken, as if they’d announced they were about to execute him.

“Indeed. He invited us for refreshments.”

“Did he…did he say anything about me?” Geoffroi asked.

Puzzled, D’Artagnan shook his head.

“Did he ask if you’d seen me?”

“Not at all,” D’Artagnan said. “Though when we met him it was on the streets of town, so perhaps he meant to look for you there.”

The young man nodded earnestly. And suddenly, Irene tossed back her hood and came to hold his arm, as if to give him strength or to hold him up. “We went to the priest,” she said. “But he wouldn’t marry us. He said a deal of nonsense about bans and all that.”

“Oh, so you found a likely prospect,” D’Artagnan said. “I congratulate you. Though I regret to say they won’t marry you, anyway, as your groom is underage.”

And here Geoffroi shook his head. “I won’t be underage if we go where we’re not known and—”

“Oh an elopement,” D’Artagnan said shaking his head at the folly of the pair. “How very pretty. You’d find my cousin pretty hot at hand, de Comminges, once she realized being married to you was still being married and that she won’t be able to live with no responsibilities at her parents’ house, after all. Irene,” he called imperiously. “Do mount on my horse. My friends and I will escort you home.”

They were going to be late for supper after all. And there was not a hope of doing any more investigation tonight. They would have to start again tomorrow.

In the confused welter of D’Artagnan’s mind there opened so many avenues for searching out the murderer that he was not sure where to begin. He spent the ride to de Bigorres’ in silence, trying to find how to even start looking.