Death in Gascony (9 page)

“I see. And I’d wager your services are invaluable in such capacity,” D’Artagnan said as he walked into the room.

It was a tidy room, as it would be, Monsieur D’Artagnan père having been a soldier and one who had engaged in long campaigns. He had got used to taking care of his possessions and keeping them in order.

Order, in this room—which was scarcely larger than the sort of small chamber normally used to keep clothes or implements—meant that rolls of paper and stacks of books were on a long, narrow table by the window. A larger table was set in the middle of the room. This one, D’Artagnan’s father had used as a writing table. There were stacks of unused paper on it, as well as inkwells and a couple of trimmed quills. A stool was pulled up to it, D’Artagnan’s father having disdained more fanciful seating.

There were also two low trunks, under the table—one of them bearing scuff marks and a shiny spot on top, where D’Artagnan’s father was accustomed to resting his feet.

The cutthroats in the hostelry had said something about D’Artagnan needing to be killed so papers would never be found. If there was a document that could enlighten him on their motives, it would be here.

Without a word, aware that Mousqueton had come in, closed the door and leaned against it, thereby protecting D’Artagnan from a stealth attack, D’Artagnan started examining the papers on the long table.

None of them seemed important. Most of the papers, folded or rolled, were letters—a lot of them from old comrades at arms, though one or two of them, written in the querulous tone of elderly people who suspect that someone, somewhere, might still be amusing themselves, were clearly from old and distant relatives.

D’Artagnan noted, curiously, that more than one of those letters made disapproving reference to his mother. At least, D’Artagnan could not interpret “that woman you married” in any other light. He frowned, realizing that even his near relatives, the de Bigorres, avoided contact with his mother in every possible way, and he wondered why.

There was nothing in his mother’s history that could justify this. Though she’d never given him an account of her childhood, and her only reference to her family was to say they were all dead, D’Artagnan had gleaned enough from her stories to gather that she came from noble-enough people—that she’d trained in a convent as a young woman and that she’d come from the convent almost immediately to his father’s arms.

He couldn’t imagine what, in such a biography, could excite the dislike of relatives who signed themselves with three surnames and sealed their letters with enough wax to keep a royal proclamation safe. But the de Bigorres were so proud they probably resented any of them—even a second son—marrying less than a great heiress.

D’Artagnan looked up and through the three windows, one on each side of the little tower. Through the windows he could see the fields and the vineyards and to the west a cluster of riders that he judged to be his two friends and Bazin, amid the fields.

From this tower he could see almost the full extent of his hereditary domains. He smiled at the idea that his mother hadn’t been noble enough for the holder of such land.

But if his extended family so despised Madame D’Artagnan it was all the more reason for D’Artagnan to stay and protect her. He’d never see Paris again. No. He must stay and protect his mother, who would otherwise be devoid of protection.

He sighed and glanced at Mousqueton, who looked somber, as though he understood D’Artagnan’s thoughts.

Putting the correspondence down, D’Artagnan skimmed the books, one of which appeared to be on the art of account and the other two mere ledger books. He’d have to look through the figures more carefully in the future, to determine whether his father had put the instructional tract to good use. He would also have to go over the figures, he supposed, to determine the financial shape of his domain.

If his father had been killed—if it hadn’t been just a proper duel—then the reason for it would probably lie in those figures. It was D’Artagnan’s experience most such reasons normally came back to money. And perhaps it would even explain why someone had attempted to kill him too. And who that might be.

Leaving the stacks of papers aside, he knelt and pulled one of the trunks towards him, to look at its contents. The first one was unlocked and contained nothing more than more receipts and bills and accounts.

While the information in them might be very interesting, or even, perhaps, vital to the understanding of his father’s death, D’Artagnan could not look through it all right now, much less absorb its import.

Instead, he closed the trunk and pushed it aside. He pulled the one with the scuff marks atop towards him, and was surprised to find it locked. How much security could it need? The office had already been locked. How much more did the trunk need to be secured?

“Permit me, Monsieur,” Mousqueton said, and, kneeling, unlocked the trunk with worrisome efficiency.

D’Artagnan waited, his heart beating a little faster than he’d like to admit, until Mousqueton had turned his back, before he opened the lid.

Inside the trunk was…fabric. D’Artagnan frowned at it, as the fabric resolved itself into a military tunic and a plumed hat, and then he smiled to himself, realizing that what this trunk held were souvenirs of his father’s life before he’d come back to his domains and settled down.

He moved the plumed hat aside, and lifted the tunic. Underneath the uniform was a dress. Silk, in a brilliant blue. D’Artagnan exclaimed to himself, wondering whether in his father’s life, long before D’Artagnan had been born, there had been a young woman like D’Artagnan’s own Madame Bonacieux. Driven by this curiosity, he uncovered the dress, which appeared to have been stained by water, long ago, but to have been of the best fabric and tailoring.

He pulled it up and out of the trunk, curiously. As he did so, a paper fell out of the trunk and fluttered to the floorboards.

It was a note, written in an aristocratic hand, with brown ink—and both the paper and the ink looked far too fresh to have been put in this trunk at the same time as the old clothing.

It read: “It was at my command and for the good of the kingdom that the bearer of this note did what he had to do.”

“T
HAT
was a very strange saint, back there, in the praying room,” Porthos said, as they rode, apace, into the fields of D’Artagnan’s domain.

Aramis looked at him, amused. He had been expecting the question since he’d first seen his friend stare, openmouthed, at the holy statue. “It is a Gascon saint,” he said, keeping his voice even. “Saint Quitterie. She was the daughter of a prince, who wished her to renounce Christianity to marry a local chieftain. When she ran away to escape such fate, her father pursued her and beheaded her not far from here, in Aire sur Adour. It is said, by a great miracle of God, she then picked up her severed head and walked, holding it, to the place at which she wished to be buried, and where her shrine is to this day.”

He allowed his words to fade into silence, while Porthos stared at him. Though Aramis had his reasons to doubt the veracity of the account—for one it was an echo of many other accounts he had heard attributed to very many different saints—he didn’t judge it prudent to make Porthos privy to his doubts.

After all—as one of Aramis’s Jesuit masters had instructed—just because as a learned churchman you might have reason to doubt many of the local traditions or miracle accounts, and though, as a theologian, you knew these were not an essential part of the gospels, yet it was true that a lot of popular faith rested on them. And as a learned believer, it was not part of your duty, nor indeed recommended, that you use your knowledge to tear down the innocent faith of the simple people.

Aramis thought on the gospel passage that stated it would be better not to be born than to give scandal to an innocent, and felt justified in his actions. Besides, surely a Saint Quitterie had lived and whether or not she had carried her head in her hands was a thing of very little importance beside the truly ineffable miracle of sainthood.

“Well,” Porthos said. “With all the pagan chieftains these women are forever expected to marry, there must have been a shortage of Christian men. I wonder why. And besides, why couldn’t she have married the chieftain and then converted him? It seems very foolish to me to run away just because you are expected to marry. Surely as the daughter of a king—”

“We can’t judge the ineffable lives of those preserved for sainthood,” Aramis said, half absently. Truth was, his mind was working at something quite different than Porthos’s usual—or rather, as normal, unusual—ramblings.

The praying room had surprised him, and yet he hadn’t quite known why. Now that he thought about it, it was because he realized that statue had been quite old, but the room it was set in was not, like a normal praying room, adorned with other marks of devotion. There was just the window, and the bare walls. None of the reliquaries or sacred bits of cloth of this saint or others that normally reposed in such rooms.

And besides, there was a small church just a few steps from the house. Few houses were so devoutly Catholic as to have a room for praying—unless they were also large enough and wealthy enough to have rooms for every other imaginable purpose.

The Queen had her own praying room, of course, as did other great noblewomen, simply because it was not practical to leave the house every time you wanted to spend the day at your devotions. But why did Madame D’Artagnan need a praying room of her own? And if the house was equipped with one from time immemorial, then why was the room so unadorned?

And then how devoutly Catholic could D’Artagnan’s father be? Hadn’t D’Artagnan’s father fought for Henri IV, the Protestant King?

Oh, of course, Henri IV had converted to Catholicism that he might wear the crown of France, and a lot of his lieutenants, commanders and normal soldiers had converted with him. But most of those men had converted for the same reasons Henri IV had. Because Paris—or whatever reward they could hope for in Paris—was worth a Mass. They had not converted out of any great devotion or the hope for paradise from the church of Rome.

Aramis, of course, disapproved of people who made such a travesty of his faith. Or at least, he didn’t exactly approve of them. Though he had not read Protestant apologetics as part of his education—his masters did not believe in exposing their charges to the works of the devil—he had read about the Protestant doctrines. Enough, at any rate, to consider them grave error and not to be pardoned, much less embraced.

However, the other part of Aramis, the part that lived in the world and not in theology books, knew that many good men—and men of good mind and conscience too—had picked the other side in the wars of religion. Which meant however in error, that they held that conviction according to their reason.

He also knew that a lot of people had changed and far be it from him to doubt the sincerity of their conversions, but it was known a lot of them changed only so they could have a place in the new kingdom.

However, if D’Artagnan’s father had converted out of ambition, where had that very old statue come from? And why a praying room in his own house?

Perhaps he had converted, but out of conviction.

He realized he’d been lost in his own thoughts and that Porthos had dismounted and was walking around what appeared to be a paved threshing floor. It was a vast space, encompassed by a low wall, and though Aramis knew next to nothing of agricultural work, he had a vague memory of seeing men threshing the grain in such places.

He also knew, from the directions they’d received at the beginning of their ride, that this was the place where D’Artagnan’s father had fought his last and fatal duel. He looked cautiously around the area, feeling as though it should be inhabited by an unquiet spirit.

Porthos, on the other hand, was pacing the perimeter, staring at the ground and looking as if he were measuring the ground by steps.

Aramis didn’t think this expedition—which Porthos had insisted on taking based on a stable boy’s mention of Monsieur D’Artagnan’s death—could lead to anything. What, exactly, could Porthos expect to find out from looking at the place where a duel had been fought two weeks before? Even if it hadn’t rained, he was sure other people had crossed through here in the meantime. There would be nothing. Not even footprints.

“Porthos,” he said.

The large redhead, now on his knees, stared at something on the ground.
What
God only knew, and even He might be at a loss to understand
why
. He grunted at Aramis.

“Porthos, attend to me,” Aramis said. “Did D’Artagnan ever tell you what his father’s religion was?”

Porthos looked up. “No. But D’Artagnan is Catholic.”

“I know that,” Aramis said, barely containing a snort of impatience. “And his mother clearly is Catholic, given the statue of St. Quitterie in her praying room.”

Porthos shrugged. “Well, then,” he said. “At any rate, what else would they be? They’re good loyal subjects of the King.”

“The King has good subjects who are Protestant,” Aramis said. “Some of them noblemen living in the capital.”

Porthos didn’t answer to that. He was now, on his knees, following some trail on the ground. What could it possibly be? From atop his horse, Aramis could see no footprints, and nothing clearly defined. And then, given the way that Porthos thought…well…it could be anything at all.

Aramis had been friends with Porthos long enough to know that the tall man was not stupid. Oh, certainly, he was not the most able to manipulate language, and this often led those who didn’t know him very well to think he was less than intelligent. But Aramis knew better. He had seen Porthos, in the past, solve puzzles the rest of them couldn’t, by the application of an odd form of thought that seemed to be three parts composed of his senses and only one of his thought.

But intelligent or not, Porthos had a very odd turn of mind. And whatever he was following might be crucial, or might mean nothing at all. Still, Aramis dismounted.

“Porthos, attend.”

“I am attending. You just don’t seem to be saying anything of any import,” Porthos answered, looking closer at something on the flagstones.

Aramis resisted an impulse to argue. While he and Porthos argued more or less continuously—long, involved disagreements that in no way affected their friendship—right then Aramis wanted answers, not a pastime. “Only because you don’t attend,” he said. “Look, D’Artagnan’s father fought for Henri IV.”

“Of course he did. Henri IV was the King of Navarre before he was the King of France, and Navarre is around here somewhere. His soldiers were almost all Gascons. That might have been why he had such success. Crazy men, Gascons. And fearless fighters too.”

“No,” Aramis said. And before Porthos protested, “What you say is true, but that is not what I mean. What I mean is that Henri of Navarre was a Protestant.”

“He converted before he became King of France,” Porthos said. “As it’s only fair.”

Aramis sighed in exasperation. “All this I know, but did Monsieur D’Artagnan père also convert? Or was he always Catholic? And if he was always—”

“It’s unlikely he was, you know,” Porthos said. “At least the noblemen in Henri IV’s army were all Protestant. And Monsieur D’Artagnan père, no matter if he was a second son, was a nobleman.”

“That is my point,” Aramis said. “And frankly, that praying room has the look of a Calvinist chapel—all empty and bare and unadorned. No reliquaries, no paintings on the wall itself, not even crosses as part of the architecture. It seems to me that the praying room was a Protestant chapel or meeting room, later converted to a praying room, perhaps by Madame D’Artagnan.”

Porthos grunted. He got up off his knees and followed something to the wall, then looked up at the flat top of the wall—built of rocks so thick it was probably, in Roman times or earlier medieval times, the foundation of a building. “I don’t see what it matters. So perhaps the D’Artagnans—or whoever lived in the house before them—were Protestant. And they’re now Catholic. I don’t understand why this should exercise your mind, Aramis.” Porthos snorted and shrugged. “Oh, sure, you worry about everyone’s soul. But our friend’s soul is safe in the arms of the mother church. So, why worry?”

“Because that statue is far older than Madame D’Artagnan,” Aramis said. “Why, just from the proportions of the body…the head is much bigger than it should be. You know…I’d think that statue was created five or six hundred years ago.”

“Didn’t look that old.”

“Well, I’m sure the paint has been touched up, and the gilding added, but I’m sure it’s that old. And my question is, how did a Protestant family come by that kind of ancient image?”

Porthos looked up and blinked at him. “God’s Blood, Aramis, sometimes I wonder if you’re mad.” Before Aramis could protest, Porthos laughed. “Statues! Why, my friend, statues can be bought and sold, no matter what their age. Perhaps D’Artagnan’s mother heard that the statue had miraculous powers or such and spent a great deal of money on it. Or perhaps the statue was always theirs but forgotten somewhere, in the main house of D’Artagnan’s relatives…what’s their name again? Oh, yes, de Bigorre. Or perhaps it came from the side of D’Artagnan’s mother’s family.

“Or perhaps,” he said, shrugging emphatically, “the de Bigorres were always Catholic, and only their son, D’Artagnan’s father, converted to Protestantism. Or perhaps this is all your mare’s nest and D’Artagnan’s father was as good a Catholic as could be hoped for and only fought for Henri IV out of Gascon pride. Who are we to guess?”

“But—” Aramis started.

“No buts. Look, look here.
This
is solid, and I wonder what it means.”

As he spoke, Porthos was touching the wall, and Aramis wondered what he expected the wall to be if not solid. But because there would be no talking to Porthos until he found out what was going on in Porthos’s mind, Aramis obliged him by coming close and taking a look.

There, by Porthos’s large hand, were stains on the rock—minute, dark stains. Aramis frowned on them, for a while, then said, “Blood?”

Porthos nodded enthusiastically. “Blood. You see, it comes from there, where the duel took place and where D’Artagnan’s father was killed…to here.”

“I see. So he was stabbed and backed this way?” Aramis said, wondering why Porthos was so interested in this.

Porthos looked up, frowning slightly. “No, no, no. His father was run through here. Through the throat. I asked.” He got up and paced to the center of the threshing floor, where Aramis could see there was, indeed, a bloodstain. “He stumbled this way”—he stepped the opposite way from the bloodstains on the wall—“and fell here.” Another spot with a large bloodstain.

Porthos scratched at his beard. “So, the question is, where did the other trail of blood come from? It comes all the way from there.” He pointed to the wall. “And though the light is failing too much for me to determine whether it continues in the grass beyond, I suspect it does. If D’Artagnan’s father was run through here—” He stepped towards the spot again. “And died here.” Ten steps the other way. “Then how could he have bled all the way there, up the wall and onto the fields beyond?”

Aramis sighed. He knew that Porthos was not stupid. He valued his friend. But sometimes it was very trying how Porthos thought himself into these cul-de-sacs and didn’t seem to glimpse the most obvious of paths out.

“Porthos,” he said, his voice sounding as tired as he felt. “Perhaps the other man was slightly injured. Those drops of blood are very small. Perhaps he was slightly injured and went that way, to his own house, after the duel.”

Porthos looked at him, with brow furrowed, a long time. “You know…that never occurred to me,” he said. And he gave every appearance of trying to come up with some reason to doubt Aramis’s logical explanation of events.

Aramis bit his lip, hoping Porthos wouldn’t say something too strange. And meanwhile, he wondered what the D’Artagnan family’s religion had been. And what it meant for this region of France that had so long been ripped apart by wars of religion.

Could it be reason enough for a murder, these many years after?