Read The musketeer's apprentice Online
Authors: Sarah d' Almeida
The musketeer's apprentice (39 page)
Martin was staring at her, his mouth half-open in complete astonishment, his eyes filled with horror. But all he said was, “The children aren’t mine. I’d never laid eyes on Amelie when she first showed up here, and she was already big with child. That man says Guillaume was his son.”
The woman looked at Porthos, then back at her husband, and then at Amelie. “Oh, perhaps, but the girl has your face and your gestures, so I was justified in thinking they were both yours. And I was justified in killing him, too, and taking away his ill-gotten gains.”
She got up from the table, suddenly calm. “Put the money back in the wall. I don’t want to speak of this ever again.”
When the constables came to arrest her, she was busily polishing the counter, and seemed surprised anyone would want to punish her, after she confessed to murdering two people, in the sight of her husband, three musketeers, a guard and a group of honest merchants who’d found this a very strange entertainment provided for their mealtime, and who’d listened to everything very attentively indeed.
A Daughter Found; Legacies
"AMELIE,
bring the gentlemen some wine,” Martin said, and dropped everything he was doing—which at that moment was picking up dirty mugs and delivering them to tiny Amelie behind the counter.
bring the gentlemen some wine,” Martin said, and dropped everything he was doing—which at that moment was picking up dirty mugs and delivering them to tiny Amelie behind the counter.
The girl already looked different. She was wearing different clothes for one. Squinting at her, to see her better against the early morning sunlight, Athos was sure the clothes she had on were the woman’s, inexpertly altered to fit her much smaller size. But they were better clothes than the rags she’d worn before, and her hair was combed and loosely tied back. And she looked . . . happier.
She nodded to her father, and expertly drew the wine from the barrel and brought cups she put in front of each of the men. Then she hurried to serve another table that was clamoring for something.
“I don’t have much time,” Martin told them. “There aren’t many heavy drinkers in the morning, but the guests like to break their fast before they go, and Amelie is filling in valiantly, and of course we have a cook in the back, but still, we might need to hire a wench or two to help, till Amelie is older.”
“You sent for us,” Athos said. “You sent a note . . .”
Martin nodded. “What I want to know is this—is there someone to whom we need to return the gold?”
Porthos started to open his mouth, but Athos shook his head. “No one. It was given with good and free will. Only, I hope you’re not intending on spending it on drink and—”
The man shook his head. He looked, Athos noticed, more serious than he’d looked before. “That’s all behind me now. I don’t even want to marry again. Not till Amelie is settled. You see, I have a daughter.” He shook his head as though at the wonder of it. “It turns out everyone around here knew she was my daughter and thought I knew. Only I . . .” He shrugged. “When I . . . When Amelie came here, I’d already been married to Josiane so many years, and we had no children. And, you know, there had been other women and I had no children. So I thought there was something wrong with me. I thought . . .” He shook his head. “But I have Amelie. She’s quite a little worker, and if I keep the gold for a dowry for her, who knows . . . She might even marry an accountant or an attorney.”
Athos gave Porthos a sideways glance, to see how he took that, but Porthos only nodded. Sometimes Porthos could be very sensible, and see, as well as they all did, that an attorney’s life was a step up from this.
“Or she can inherit the inn and make it the best and largest inn in Paris,” Martin said. He looked grave. “At any rate, I wanted to thank you. You’ll always have a meal or a drink here if you need it.”
Athos, knowing that they would save that for when they needed and not for when they wanted it, which would save Martin growing tired of them very quickly, nodded. “And Amelie will always have four protectors,” he said. “Should she need them.”
“We would like,” Porthos said. “To take her with us, for four days, leaving tomorrow, if you will let us?”
To the man’s look of startled surprise, he explained. “We’re having Guillaume buried in my family plot, where all my ancestors sleep. And I’d like Amelie to be there. I think he would have wanted it.”
A shadow passed over the man’s eyes, and then he nodded.
For the Sake of a Lost Handkerchief
D’ARTAGNAN
was asleep. It was not a dreamless sleep, rather a sleep filled with dreams in which a beautiful, blond woman ran just ahead of him, laughing lightly and calling out in the voice of Madame Bonacieux, “You fool. You poor fool!”
was asleep. It was not a dreamless sleep, rather a sleep filled with dreams in which a beautiful, blond woman ran just ahead of him, laughing lightly and calling out in the voice of Madame Bonacieux, “You fool. You poor fool!”
Into this dream there intruded a sound like a scratching. It wasn’t enough to wake him. Instead, he thought it might be a mouse and there was a momentary dream of being a mouse in the wall—a mouse taunted by a beautiful blond woman.
But then the mouse whispered, back and forth in two voices; there was the sound of a door closing; then of steps, and then of the door to his room—the innermost of the two rooms in his lodging—opening and closing, and a smell of roses seemed to fill the whole room, overpowering.
Light steps approached his bed, and it was too much for D’Artagnan to hold on to his shreds of sleep. He opened his eyes, and he knew he was dreaming.
Madame Bonacieux stood there, in the moonlight.
4
Shewas dressed in only a very flimsy shirt that covered to her knees. Beneath it, one could see the rosy forms of her breasts, swelling gently, and guess at the narrow waist. Her blond hair was loose down her back. In a pile at her feet lie those accoutrements of respectability—her over dress, her cloak, her bonnet—which she’d clearly just discarded.
4
Shewas dressed in only a very flimsy shirt that covered to her knees. Beneath it, one could see the rosy forms of her breasts, swelling gently, and guess at the narrow waist. Her blond hair was loose down her back. In a pile at her feet lie those accoutrements of respectability—her over dress, her cloak, her bonnet—which she’d clearly just discarded.
D’Artagnan raised himself on an elbow, to look more closely at this apparition, which might be a dream and insubstantial, but was, nonetheless, the most beautiful thing ever to grace his room.
“Don’t say anything,” she said, rapidly. “I don’t do this.” Her hands went up to cover her face, and when they came away, revealed she was blushing dark. “I’ve never done this before. Not with just anyone. But I want you to know that if I used you abominably, it was at least in part to lie to myself, to tell myself that you didn’t matter. I could tell you were overcome at first sight, but, monsieur, I was overcome too.”
She stepped towards the bed, moving—where D’Artagnan was concerned—as if on a cloud of dream. “But then I saw how you behaved when you realized I’d used you, and I thought I’d betrayed myself, too, and there was only one way to make it right. My husband doesn’t know I have this night off from the palace. Your servant says you’re leaving tomorrow on a trip. So, you see, that leaves us tonight. Please, don’t say no.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” D’Artagnan said. The dream was now close enough that he could extend his hands and touch it. To his surprise, it was very corporeal and warm and human—female flesh, pliant to his touch. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said again.
He pulled; she tumbled onto the bed.
And then there was warmth and softness and the diffuse smell of roses.
Fathers
PORTHOS’S
pounding on the door of the manor house at Du Vallon brought an almost immediate response. There could be no other way, since they’d been traveling slowly, with the sealed coffin in a cart among them, and there would have been talk and comment about it.
pounding on the door of the manor house at Du Vallon brought an almost immediate response. There could be no other way, since they’d been traveling slowly, with the sealed coffin in a cart among them, and there would have been talk and comment about it.
The door was opened by Monsieur du Vallon, himself, in a towering rage.
“Good morning, Father,” Porthos said.
The old man half-flung the door. “I have no son,” he said.
“How strange,” Porthos said. “For you had one.”
“He’s dead.”
“No,” Porthos said. With his massive hand, he forced the door open wide, so his father could see the cart, with its black-draped bundle. “No, Father. My son is dead. And my son is going to be buried in the cemetery of Du Vallon, next to our ancestors. And the name on the tombstone, which I brought with me is Guillaume du Vallon. Do you understand me, Father?”
For a moment it looked like his father was going to flare up and scream back at Porthos. But he looked at Porthos, and at the cart, and at the other three silent men, and the dark-dressed little girl with them, then back at Porthos. “Do what you want and be damned,” he said. “Why should I care where a pile of bones rests?”
Which was how, a few hours later, they came to be standing around a small grave, newly filled, while Porthos carefully set the tombstone over it. The stone read
Guillaume du Vallon, son of Pierre du Vallon.
Guillaume du Vallon, son of Pierre du Vallon.
In death, at least, Porthos thought, Guillaume had come home. Even if all the paternal care that Porthos could give him now was a father’s tears.
Turn the page for a preview of
the next Musketeers Mystery
the next Musketeers Mystery
The Musketeer’s Inheritance
Coming soon from Berkley Prime Crime!
Where the Musketeers Are Good Samaritans; Springing His Eminence’s Trap; An Unwelcome Summons"EN
garde,” Monsieur Henri D’Artagnan said, as he danced back to a defensive position, and lifted his own sword. “Unsheathe your swords.”
garde,” Monsieur Henri D’Artagnan said, as he danced back to a defensive position, and lifted his own sword. “Unsheathe your swords.”
Facing him, under the pale yellow sun of early autumn, outraging him with their presence on the outskirts of Paris, just outside the convent of the Barefoot Carmelites, three guards of Cardinal Richelieu pointedly did
not
unsheathe.
not
unsheathe.
Instead, the lead one—a middle-aged blond—looked from D’Artagnan to the three musketeers who stood behind the young guard, staring at the scene with varying expressions of amusement.
“But, monsieur,” the guard of the Cardinal said, lifting his hat and scratching at the sparse blond hair beneath. “All I did was remind you of the edicts against dueling. How would this justify
dueling
with you?”
dueling
with you?”
D’Artagnan hesitated, his internal conflict visible only in a straightening of his shoulders and a sharp look up. Seventeen years old, with the lank dark hair and bright, dark eyes of his native Gascony, D’Artagnan was muscular and lean like a fine horse. And like a fine horse, every one of his thoughts was obvious in movement, in stance, in a tossing of the head or a quick glance. He was aware of his body betraying his impatience.
“It seems to me,” a mannered, cultivated voice said from behind D’Artagnan. “That you have offered our friend a great insult, monsieur guard.”
It was a voice that would have sounded very well coming out of a pulpit and explaining in rounded phrases some obscure point of theology. The gentleman who spoke, so far from looking like a priest, was a tall, well-built blond, whose wavy hair shone from brushing.
His clothes, in the last cry of fashion, boasted a doublet that was only vaguely that of the musketeer’s uniform. Though blue, it was made of patterned satin and crisscrossed with enough ribbon to adorn several court dresses. More ribbons adorned sleeves and hung in fetching knots from wrist closures. A profusion of silver buttons shone like the ice that sparkled from the ground on this cold November morning.
His name was Aramis and despite the languid speech and the intent gaze he now bent upon his perfectly manicured nails, he was known as one of the most dangerous blades in the King’s Musketeers and a breaker of ladies’ hearts. It was said he was pursued by princesses, courted by duchesses, and that a foreign queen had sent him the expensive jewel that dazzled from his exquisitely plumed hat.
D’Artagnan knew Aramis well enough that he did not need to turn to know that his friend’s bright green eyes shone with mischief. That Aramis enjoyed this. His enjoyment did not help D’Artagnan calm down.
“Indeed,” another of the musketeers said. He was as tall as Aramis, but of quite a different type. For one, he did not wear fashionable clothes. Rather, his clothes were in the fashion of decades ago—a tightly laced doublet and old-fashioned knee breeches that displayed, below the knee, a muscular leg encased in mended stockings.
This musketeer’s curly hair—a black so dark as to appear blue in certain lights—was tightly pulled back and tied roughly with a scrap of leather. His pale skin revealed the slight creasing around the eyes, the lines around the mouth that showed him the oldest one of those present— and as not having lived an easy life.
Looking back over his shoulder, D’Artagnan saw that his friend’s smile was guarded, but that his dark blue eyes sparkled with as much mischief as those of Aramis. His name was Athos, though D’Artagnan had found that in another life—before he’d joined the musketeers to expiate what he considered his unforgivable crime—he’d been the Count de la Fere, scion of one of the oldest families in the realm.
His nobility showed now, as he advanced a foot and tossed back his head. Despite his mended clothes, he was very much the grand seigneur as he said, “I think these gentlemen owe you an apology, D’Artagnan.”
“What I don’t understand,” the third musketeer said, his voice booming over the landscape and making the guards jump. “Is why they assume we were dueling, I mean . . .” He paused struggling for words.
This enmity with language was the trademark of Porthos and despite his present outrage D’Artagnan couldn’t help smiling slightly at hearing it. It often made people think him stupid, but very few would tell him to his face, because Porthos looked like a Norse god. Much taller than his companions—or indeed than anyone else—with broad shoulders and a muscular body capable of feats of strength to rival those of mythology, Porthos could not be made more splendid by wrapping himself in finery. This didn’t stop him trying.
Other books
The Immigrants by Fast, Howard.
Dragonstar Destiny by David Bischoff, Thomas F. Monteleone
Penumbra (The Midnight Society #2) by Logan Patricks
The Second Coming by Fritschi, J.
Macbeth's Niece by Peg Herring
Dark Winter by Andy McNab
Sombras de Plata by Elaine Cunningham
Return to Eden by Kaitlyn O'Connor
Being Julia (A Forever Novella) by Lynn, Sandi