Read Dying by the sword Online
Authors: Sarah d'Almeida
Dying by the sword (13 page)
D’Artagnan nodded. Having walked all the while they spoke, they were now well away from the neighborhood of the armorer’s and at the point where they must choose whether to turn in the direction of Porthos’s lodgings or D’Artagnan’s. D’Artagnan motioned towards the alley which would lead them to the Rue des Fossoyers, where he lived. “Come with me,” he said. “I must change out of this suit.”
“Of course,” Porthos said, good-naturedly, and followed him. “So I thought perhaps they had hammers up there. Not . . . Not that I could see them there, and I don’t think anyone would have their work hammers so far up they would need a tool to retrieve them, but then . . . perhaps they’d made a hammer or two, to see how they would sell, you know . . . and hung them up there.”
“Unlikely,” D’Artagnan said.
“Very, but I was thinking, you see, of what people would say.”
“Of course,” D’Artagnan said. “And so . . .”
“I put a hammer up there, hung it with a bit of leather. And then I swung the rack, to see if it would fall.”
“And did it?” D’Artagnan asked.
Porthos shook his head. “Never did. And, you know, I could not allow it to fall on my head, but I’m sure we can get some large melons or something of that nature. I would wager you, if I can make it fall, coming from as far up as it would be coming, even a glancing blow would be enough to crush a melon. Or a human head.”
Frowning, D’Artagnan nodded. “You may be right,” he said.
“I know I am,” Porthos said, with that complete absence of arrogance and absolute certainty in his own experience that was his hallmark. “So it is quite impossible for Mousqueton to have done it. Of course, I already knew Mousqueton couldn’t do it, but . . . I didn’t have proof.”
“Yes, yes, and proof is very important.” They had reached D’Artagnan’s door, and D’Artagnan opened it and started up the stairs, to his lodging. Porthos followed.
“Planchet,” D’Artagnan said, “will be with Grimaud, so it would be perhaps a good idea for us to go there, after I have changed.”
“Certainly,” Porthos said. “Perhaps we may speak to Athos about the hammers and . . . and the impossibility of the whole thing, and perhaps he can lay that impossibility before Monsieur de Treville.”
Thinking that while Athos would be more than happy to lay the impossibility before Monsieur de Treville, it was highly unlikely that the captain could do anything more about it, D’Artagnan started to cross his vast front room, empty except for a table at which the four of them often held their war councils. And stopped. On the mantelpiece was a letter in a hand he knew much too well.
He stopped and broke the seal and was momentarily overwhelmed by the familiar perfume of Constance, Madame Bonacieux, the wife of his landlord, D’Artagnan’s lover and, incidentally, the first true love of his young life.
All of which made him frown at the shakiness of the hand in which she had written: “Please meet me at the palace as soon as you can. Monsieur de la Porte will make sure you can enter. Tell him I am expecting you. Yours, anxiously, C.B.”
He turned to Porthos, letter in hand.
“Bad news?” Porthos asked.
“Not . . . I hope not, but Constance wants to see me,” he said. “As soon as may be. I will change and go to her.”
“You know,” Porthos said, slowly, “Athos will never forgive me if I let you go alone. Perhaps I should accompany you now?” And then, in a rush, “Oh, I don’t mean I will go with you to see Constance. I don’t . . . have the need to see her. But I will accompany you to her door and wait for you. You know how Athos worries.”
And D’Artagnan, looking up at his friend’s eyes, knew how Porthos worried, also, and wasn’t cruel enough to refuse his offer. “I would be very grateful to you,” he said. And added with a hint of mischief, “But only if you promise not to drop hammers on my head.”
Porthos looked shocked. “Melons,” he said, drily. “Not Gascons.” And before D’Artagnan could decide whether his friend was joking or not, he added with a smile, “Everyone knows your average Gascon head is hard enough to break any hammers dropped on it, no matter from what height.”
Instead of Love; The Many Forms of Forgetting; Where Athos Sometimes Was Correct
ARAMIS entered the room, as the Duchess de Chevreuse sealed her letter, dropped it on her desk as something of little importance, and turned towards him with a smile. “My friend,” she said, and extended both hands.
The Duchess de Chevreuse had to be close to Athos’s age. Aramis wasn’t sure exactly how old she might be, but he knew she was on her second marriage and that her son, Louis Charles D’Albert, a godson of the King’s, was now six and that she’d given birth to a daughter just the year before. But no one would have believed it, looking at her.
Blond, with soft, well-shaped features, Marie Aimee de Rohan, Duchess de Chevreuse—or Marie Michon
4
, as she called herself in the midst of her impetuous adventures and intrigues, which had made her the scandal of France and the amusement of the rest of the world—looked no more than seventeen.
4
, as she called herself in the midst of her impetuous adventures and intrigues, which had made her the scandal of France and the amusement of the rest of the world—looked no more than seventeen.
Her hair retained the intense gold shading which was usually the mark of the very first youth, and her intent blue eyes projected an expression of complete innocence.
Yet she stepped into Aramis’s arms with the ease that betrayed a woman who had had more than one husband and who, at this time in her life, entertained several lovers from various orders of nobility.
Aramis received her body in his arms, with a sigh—half of relief and half of desire. He was no fool. He knew that she was no Violette. Oh, he might have thought when he’d first started seeing Violette that he was only one of the musketeers and servants that she took to her lonely bed that her husband had spurned.
He might have continued to think so with his brain, but in his heart he knew that Violette was his and his only. As he was hers. He would have been offended—and fought a duel—had anyone told him that his Violette was seeing anyone else.
It wasn’t like that with Marie. In fact, he had no illusions at all. He thought of Marie as he supposed Athos thought of the bottle. Something in which to lose himself when the pain grew too intense to bear and the futile longing for what could never again return so strong that he could hardly think against the force of it.
For the last several months, when that longing got too strong, its buffets impossible to resist, he’d come here and satiated them on the warm lips, the pliant flesh of the Duchess.
Now he kissed her, ardently, his tongue invading her mouth, his hands roaming the heated expanse of her velvet-dressed body. She responded in kind, her hands bold and searching, loosening his doublet and slipping beneath it and his linen shirt to raise a hundred points of desire from his flesh.
“Ah, D’Herblay,” she said, as he pulled away to draw breath, and she looked up at him smiling, her eyes dazed with desire. “Nothing like the sword to make the muscles of a man stand out.” Her hands went lower and struggled for a very brief time with the fastenings of his breeches, then found their mark. Clutching it, she looked up and favored him with a dazzling smile. “I do so love a man with a good sword.”
Aramis groaned, and picked the lady up by her waist, surprising a delighted squeal from her. “Ah, Marie Michon,” he said, because he knew it pleased her to be addressed that way. “I’ve heard you’re quite good with the sword yourself, now and then.”
She giggled. “Only when some gentleman lets me borrow it.”
“Well, my friend Porthos was the one who gave fencing lessons, but I learned from him, and well enough to win duels, so let me see if I can teach your grace something useful.” Joining word to action, he dropped her on the bed, and pulled up the mass of her skirts and petticoats, beneath which she was, of course, bare. He ran his hands up her stockinged legs and caressed her, until her eyes looked wholly unfocused, the eyelids half-closed over them, “D’Herblay!” she said.
He grinned at her. “Are you begging me to unsheathe, milady? Is this where you wish to test my steel?”
“Yes, yes, a thousand times yes,” she said, impatiently. And then, as though remembering herself and her sense of humor, “What good is a duel if all you do is brag to the other man about how fierce you are, but you will not show your mettle?”
Aramis unfastened what remained fastened of his clothes and plunged into the safe haven of her body, so suddenly and so completely he raised a small shriek from her, though not one that could in any way be considered a protest. He took a deep breath. “Have I wounded you?”
For her only response, she raised her body and pressed against him, and he lowered himself upon her, kissing her beautiful face, her soft neck, burying his own face into the soft, scented mound of her breasts.
Anything, anything at all, to avoid thinking of another body, another pair of breasts, now taken from him by the only rival he could not hope to best.
Violette’s breasts had been smaller, but firmer, her neck longer and her features, though not as universally celebrated as those of this Duchess, had a sort of arch sweetness that made him fall at her feet at the sight of them. And while he had not been her first lover, nor the second, nor, indeed, he very much doubted, in the first dozen, she was somewhat less bold than De Chevreuse. Or at least she liked letting him set the rhythm and rarely pushed against him in that impatient manner, telling him to stab forcefully or not at all.
And yet, this woman too was sweet, and her scent of spice and some indefinable exotic mixture tantalized his senses. And his body responded with deep-seated pleasure to her advances and, in the way of things, he pursued release eagerly, till his body gave it to him, blotting out thought and—for a moment—breath and awareness of self with it.
He came to while being rather rudely shoved aside, and because the lady was inconstant, but never rude, he opened his eyes in shock, to find her glaring at him. “D’Herblay,” she said, crossing her arms on her not inconsequential chest, from which he seemed, somehow, to have torn enough lace and ruffles that her left nipple stood up among such a nest, looking like a slatternly version of its more demure right-side sister, still sheltered by fabric.
“Yes?” he asked, dazed, as he pulled away and fastened his own disarranged clothes.
To his surprise, she answered him with a bubbling laugh and, looking up, he found her sitting up and smiling at him. “It won’t do, my friend. It won’t do. This is much like sending a challenge to duel to the wrong man.” She shook her head. “At the very least, you’ll offend the offended yet more, and you’ll offend a whole other group of people.” Looking up at what must be his very bewildered expression indeed, she laughed again. “How abominable you are, D’Herblay. You have no idea at all what you have done, do you?”
He shook his head, checking that he was indeed now decent, and adjusting his doublet.
“Who is Violette?” she asked.
The name, pronounced in the light of day, made him tremble all over and look up. “Vio—” he said, but could not pronounce the rest of it. Not here. Not in front of this woman.
“You don’t even know, do you? I’m sure,” she said, drawing herself up in turn and rearranging her clothing. “She would be heartbroken if she knew you forgot her name as soon as she left your bed. And yet”—she gave him a calculating look—“you remember her in the throes of pleasure, which seems to indicate that she has bitten deeper than I would have expected. Who is she, D’Herblay? Are we going to hear the announcement that you have decided to forsake your vocation and to marry, after all?”
“No,” he said, horrified, wishing she would drop the subject. Sometimes he found himself quite willing to agree with Athos that women were the devil.
“Oh, good. You’re not so lost. Because, of course, it would not do. I suspect you could no more be faithful to a wife than I could be faithful to a husband. So I’m very glad you’re not willing—quite yet—to marry your Violette,” she said, and, on the instinctive, immediate reaction to the name, she looked surprised.
“I’d marry her in a second, madam,” Aramis said, primly, hoping this would stop the flow of words. And hoping above all it would stop De Chevreuse pronouncing a name he tried to avoid even thinking too loudly, in the privacy of his own mind. “Were it possible.”
The Duchess was sitting in the midst of her disarrayed clothes that rose like a frothy foam of fabric at her waist. She looked like a picture some Italian painter might do, slightly altered. Venus rising from the sea, perhaps, though the sea probably shouldn’t be on a bed. At his response, she widened her eyes. “Oh, married is she? My condolences, D’Herblay, but I must own that leaves the field open to the rest of us who are perhaps not quite so skilled as to imprint ourselves upon your mind and heart so indelibly.”
The idea that his love for Violette was based on skill—that type of skill yet—made Aramis start. “She’s not married,” he snapped. “She is dead.”
“Oh,” De Chevreuse said, and, as her face fell, “Oh, but her name was not Viol—”
“Please don’t pronounce it,” Aramis said. “Please don’t. She was that to me. It was the name she first gave me, and to that name we clung.” He shook his head. “Have mercy on a bereaved man and don’t drag your fingernails upon a still raw wound.”
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