*The book currently driving me insane is the fifth of the musketeers. And why is it driving me insane? Ah, good question, my dears. It’s because they are ALL — all — being so excedingly themselves. Athos is secretive and controlled; Aramis is sleeping with the duchess the Chevreuse (blame Dumas, really!) and getting involved in conspiracies; Porthos is dropping hammers on his own head; leaving D’Artagnan to actually TALK to the neighbors of the victim. I can’t give you more than the first chapter, because it is not ready for public consumption yet, but here is the first chapter. (The rest will be ready come Monday. Has to be. It’s drop dead date for my publisher. I might not sleep this weekend, but… eh.) Oh, this is only marginally proofed. It will have two more proofs before being mailed to publisher. For now, y’all just have to live with it. :) *
Those Who Live By The Sword; The Honor of A Musketeer’s Servant
All For One
Athos was not used to being looked at with suspicion and hostility, much less when the suspicion and hostility came from mere commoners – a confused rabble of women and children, servants and passerby, the dregs and crowds of early afternoon in Paris.
In fact, the oldest of the three Musketeers and the guard of Monsieur des Essarts commonly known as the inseparables – Athos, Porthos, Aramis and D’Artagnan – wasn’t used to being looked at directly at all. Though he had now, for some years, lived under a nom de guerre in the ranks of his majesty’s Musketeers, Athos was normally treated as the nobleman he was.
No matter how much blond and elegant Aramis preened, and no matter how many yards of lace and gold brocade the splendid red headed giant Porthos draped himself in, Athos could make them all fade into the background simply by stepping forward and throwing back his head. In his much mended Musketeer’s uniform, his curly black hair tied back with a bit of ribbon, the gaze from his dark blue eyes guarded, he looked like what he was born to be: the scion of one of France’s oldest and noblest families.
And he wasn’t used to people not listening when he spoke; he wasn’t used to being doubted; he certainly wasn’t used to having his words shouted down.
Yet the words, “I will stand by– ” had barely left his lips when the crowd shouted back at him, in confused tumult, drowning them out.
What the crowd shouted — murder and thief and hang him – was not directed at the Musketeer himself, but Athos could not have been more surprised if it had been.
He surveyed the scene before him, his face setting into a hard look composed half of determination and half of disdain.
Porthos’ servant, Mousqueton, almost as tall as his master and nearly as powerful, looked bewildered, held by five guards of the Cardinal. And around them the crowd surged. Behind them was the armorer’s shop, where Porthos had sent Mousqueton to arrange for Porthos’ sword to be mended.
It was a low-slung building, and its wide door normally stood open to the outside street – to allow the inner air, warmed by the forge, to cool. But now the heavy oak doors were shut and there were yet more guards standing in front of them. When the Musketeers had come to find the long-delayed Mousqueton, they’d stumbled on this scene of confusion and public disorder and just managed to step in front of the guards dragging Porthos’ servant away.
Athos raised his hand toward the crowd, palm out, an imperious gesture. His assumption of authority quieted them for a moment. Into the silence, Athos poured his words, “I will vouch for Mousqueton. He is my friend Porthos’” he indicated the redheaded giant just behind him with a head tilt, “servant and I’ve known him long. He is not a murderer.”
He abstained from swearing that Mousqueton was not a thief because, in truth, Porthos had recruited the then famished waif into his service upon Mousqueton’s trying to steal from him. And even now, when he had for many years been employed in a steady if not necessarily respectable position as a Musketeer’s servant, Mousqueton was known to supplement Porthos’ irregular pay in various and creative ways. Athos would be loathe to say how many times the young man had shown up at one of their assemblies carrying a bottle, which he swore had just fallen from an overloaded cart or a chicken which he claimed had been run over by a cart and to which Mousqueton had felt compelled to give mercy.
But Athos was sure, as he was sure of breathing, that Mousqueton would not murder anyone. And yet his words met with the sneer of one of the guards holding Mousqueton’s arm. “A fine thing to say, Monsieur, when he was found next to the murdered armorer. And the armorer’s best sword in this ruffian’s hand!”
And on this the crowd shouted again. Murderer and Thief and other things. Things about the Musketeers and their servants, duelers and bullies and riff-raff all.
Athos felt his hand fall onto the hilt of the sword strapped at his waist. “Do you call me a liar?” he shouted above the abuse of the crowd, “Do you doubt me?”
His voice, or the outrage in it, again bought a few moments of silence. But another of the guards said, “Well, Monsieur, it is not as if it is not known that this man,” he shook Mousqueton whose hands were tied together and who looked too bewildered to resist “is a thief, all too fond of taking that which doesn’t belong to him – eggs and bread and wine.”
“But…” Porthos said, stepping forward. He was twice again as large as most other men, red headed and dressed – as he normally was – in a splendid suit of golden brocade in the latest court fashion. But he looked as bewildered as his captive servant. “But, surely… taking a loaf of bread or an egg is not the same thing as killing someone, or even stealing a sword.”
“Doubtless he killed in the heat of the moment,” another guard said. “When discovered in theft.”
“We’ve told you he wouldn’t kill,” Porthos said.
“Yes, yes,” Athos said, impatiently. His hand held so tight onto the hilt that he felt as though the metal itself might snap under the force of his fury. “And they do not believe us, Porthos. They doubt the word of the King’s Musketeers.”
“With all respect,” one of the guards said, in a voice that denoted he had none, “It is not your word we doubt, so much as your knowing anything about this. We found this man unconscious and holding a sword next to an armorer that had been killed with that sword. No one else was in the shop. No one else was seen to come in. He is the murderer.”
And on this the crowd started shouting again, demanding Mousqueton’s death. And Athos – furious at being ignored feeling his face cool as blood drained from it – pulled at his sword, removing about a quarter of it from its sheath. He would have got it out all together, and challenged all five of the guards of the Cardinal to defend themselves against his fury, had not a hand held onto his arm, forcing the sword back down.
Athos turned to look into the cool gaze, the intent green eyes of his friend Aramis. Tall, slim and blond, Aramis was admired by half the women and not a few men at court. He claimed to wish to become a priest. He claimed that his passage through the Musketeers was just that – a temporary exile on his way to taking orders. But there were very few duelists in Paris who would dare cross swords with him. And the grip of his white, elongated fingers felt like bands of iron on Athos’ arm.
“Will you stop me?” Athos hissed back at him. “I can fight all five of them. Not bad odds, one of the King’s Musketeers against five guards of Richelieu. And the rabble will melt. You know they will.”
“No, Athos,” Aramis said. “You forget the edict.”
“The…” Athos said, and realized, as if on a wave of blind fury that seemed to obscure his gaze, that indeed, he had. Oh, not the edict against dueling. That had been in effect for so many years. Aramis’ own downfall, as a young divinity student, had come about because he had killed someone in a duel. But the edicts just drafted had a new force.
Dueling might have been illegal before, and brought the King’s displeasure down on your head. It did not, however, bring down your head, itself. The new edict called for any nobleman caught in duel to be beheaded in the public square. And while it was said his majesty hadn’t signed it yet, the Cardinal was bringing it before the king every day. Who knew if he’d not signed it, just moments ago.
Athos took a deep breath, trying to control his anger. Many years ago, in the grip of a lesser fury, he’d killed the woman he loved, the woman he’d believed had lied to him and betrayed him in a grotesque way – a way likely to destroy his and his family’s reputation forever. Then, on a wave of doubt and remorse, he’d entered the profession of Musketeer to punish himself for that crime – as other men might enter a monastery to expiate sin. And yet his anger remained within him, in a confused coil with his overwhelming guilt.
That the rabble dared yell at a Musketeer– That they thought they were safe– That his Eminence’s minions, themselves, would dare lay hands on a Musketeer’s servant–
“That’s well,” he said, forcing his fingers to let go of the sword. “That is all very well. But you have an innocent man, and the guilty one is still at large.”
The guard who’d first spoken – a mean man, with a ferret-like face and sparse moustaches – looked as though he was thinking of another insult to heap on the Musketeers. But his imagination or his courage failed and, instead of speaking, he gave Athos a stiff little bow. “Very well, Monsieur. If that is so, you may be able to prove it to his Eminence before the man is hanged. For now, we are taking him to the Bastille, to wait his Eminence’s pleasure.”
Mousqueton seemed to wake at those words. His eyes wild, he stared at them. “The Bastille!” he said, with the terror that the name of that infamous prison never failed to evoke. It was said that men disappeared into it never to be heard from again.
“Certainly the Bastille,” the guard said, almost primly. “For where else could we trust you to stay that your master might not break you out?”
This time it was Athos who put his arm out, to restrain Porthos’ hand as it fell on his sword. The larger Musketeer did not protest it, just stared at Athos, as the guards dragged Mousqueton away and the greater part of the crowd followed.
“Come,” the fourth member of their group – an eighteen year old Gascon, named D’Artagnan– said. “Come.” Though he was the smallest – and youngest – of them all, the dark eyes on his olive-skinned face were full of cunning and Athos knew for a fact that his head was always full of thoughts. People like D’Artagnan looked at life as a game to be well played, a game in which it was important to be always two or three moves ahead of the adversary.
“Come,” D’Artagnan said, again. And, turning, led them into a nearby alley.
“They’re escaping,” one of the mob called behind them, clearly having forgotten that they weren’t accused of anything.
“Well, if they escape, we still have their servant,” one of the guards said, chortling.
It took all of Athos’ will power, while grinding his teeth so it hurt, to keep from going back and punishing the insolence.
But D’Artagnan reached back and grasping the threadbare sleeve of Athos’ second-best doublet, looked up and urgently at his friend, “No Athos. No. It is no part of honor to fall into a trap.”
He led them right, then left again, seemingly at random, until they came to an area where there was no one else around. There D’Artagnan stopped, and turning his back to the blind wall of a garden, he looked at his friends.
“By the Mass,” Porthos said. “You should have let me fight them. They took my poor Mousqueton!”
“Your poor Mousqueton will be well, Porthos,” Aramis said.
“Well? In the Bastille?”
“Surely well, in the Bastille,” Aramis said, throwing back his head and with it the blond, shining curtain of his hair. “Surely you don’t think that they would mistreat him, much less kill him? Not when they know we will be going to Monsieur de Treville with our grievance as soon as we can get to his office. And that Monsieur de Treville will want to ensure Porthos’ servant is treated fairly? The Cardinal is not so foolish that he’ll overplay his hand this soon. He would only risk the King’s ire.”
“But…” Porthos said. And opened his hands as though his words had quite failed him. “The Bastille!”
Most Musketeers, most guards of Richelieu, probably most of the people who knew the giant Musketeer would think he was stupid. Athos, who had been one of Porthos’ closest friends for many years knew better. Porthos was an observant man, an intelligent one, and quite capable of sudden, blinding insight into the souls of men. However words themselves were Porthos’ foe, one that refused to be drawn out into the light of day. And in moments of emotion, like this, Porthos’ lack of facility with words managed to make him seem young and almost small.
“He’ll be safe, even in the Bastille for a while,” D’Artagnan said, taking the lead. “We will, of course, as Aramis says, go to our captain, Monsieur de Treville, and ask him, at once, to make sure that Mousqueton is well and that we have the time needed to prove his innocence.”
“But,” Porthos said, and clutched at his red locks in despair. “How could it come to this? I only asked him to go and get my sword repaired!”
“I was listening in the crowd,” D’Artagnan said, gravely. “While you were… disputing with the mob, I was talking to some of them, and they say that the armorer was found killed – run through with his best sword. And Mousqueton was found unconscious next to him. And you must know that Mousqueton’s reputation…” He floundered, doubtless catching some hint of annoyance in his friend Porthos’ look. “Well, everyone knows how fast Mousqueton’s fingers can be, Porthos.”
“But he wouldn’t steal a sword,” Porthos said. “To what purpose? And if he ran the armorer through, why would he be unconscious? I mean Mousqueton? Surely he wouldn’t faint at the sight of blood! He is my servant. You did tell them that, D’Artagnan, did you not?”
D’Artagnan shrugged. He looked up and his gaze met Athos’. D’Artagnan looked more troubled and worried than his calm words would lead anyone to suppose. “Porthos, they say that a hammer fell from its peg nearby – probably in the fight – and chanced to hit Mousqueton on the head, just as he killed the armorer.”
“God’s teeth!” Porthos said. “Are you telling me you believe Mousqueton killed him?”
“Mousqueton is your servant, Porthos, as you said, he cannot be a stranger to blood and killing.”
“Yes, but… it is one thing to kill someone in a duel,” Porthos said. “And another and quite different to murder someone by stealth.”
“But we don’t know if it wasn’t a duel, Porthos,” D’Artagnan said. “Or a fight.”
Porthos shook his head. “What would he have to fight with the armorer about? Good man, he was, let me have repairs on my sword on credit. He knew Mousqueton…” Words failing him, Porthos simply opened his hands.
Athos could have said many things, among them that the way life was, it was quite possible that a sudden altercation had arisen, or sudden anger. Or he could have said that Mousqueton was, after all, a little inclined to ignore the eighth commandment. But the whole situation – Mousqueton’s being unconscious when found, and clearly unable to give a coherent account of himself, even by the time his master had arrived on the scene – seemed skewed. Surely, it couldn’t be. The circumstances were just too strange. And the guards had been all too quick to seize upon Mousqueton as a culprit.
Perhaps they had accused Mousqueton out of pique against the Musketeers. Or perhaps, just perhaps, because they were hoping to hide the true culprit, if they moved fast enough.
Athos took his hand to his forehead. “I do think, D’Artagnan, that this is all a little too convenient. And, though Mousqueton is doubtless human, and could doubtless have lost his temper, I must say that his being found unconscious does not seem natural.”
“No,” D’Artagnan said. “Fear not. I agree with you. The whole thing is too convenient by far, for Mousqueton to be found unconscious with a bloodied sword in his hand. I don’t for a moment believe it all happened like that, with no one else being involved.”
“But what can we do to prove it?” Aramis asked.
D’Artagnan shrugged. “What we always do. We’ll find out what happened. We ask people who might know something. We examine the armorer’s shop.”
“And we prove Mousqueton innocent!” Porthos said.
“And we prove him innocent,” D’Artagnan said. “Others among us have been accused of murder before,” he looked at Aramis. “Surely the fact that Mousqueton is a servant doesn’t make him any less our responsibility.”
“No,” Aramis said, doubtless remembering the circumstances under which he’d been suspected of murder, circumstances far more incriminating than even Mousqueton’s. “No. Perhaps more our responsibility, since he’s more defenseless than we are.”
“Yes,” Porthos said. “We are his only family, you know? He was an orphan when I took him into my service.”
“Well, then,” Athos said, and though he heard the amusement in his own voice, he knew he was in dead earnest. “Let it be for our servants as it is for us. We’ll prove him innocent or die trying. One for all–”
“And all for one,” his friends answered in a single voice.
Porthos’ servant, Mousqueton, almost as tall as his master and nearly as powerful, looked bewildered, held by five guards of the Cardinal. And around them the crowd surged. Behind them was the armorer’s shop, where Porthos had sent Mousqueton to arrange for Porthos’ sword to be mended.
It was a low-slung building, and its wide door normally stood open to the outside street – to allow the inner air, warmed by the forge, to cool. But now the heavy oak doors were shut and there were yet more guards standing in front of them. When the Musketeers had come to find the long-delayed Mousqueton, they’d stumbled on this scene of confusion and public disorder and just managed to step in front of the guards dragging Porthos’ servant away.
Athos raised his hand toward the crowd, palm out, an imperious gesture. His assumption of authority quieted them for a moment. Into the silence, Athos poured his words, “I will vouch for Mousqueton. He is my friend Porthos’” he indicated the redheaded giant just behind him with a head tilt, “servant and I’ve known him long. He is not a murderer.”
He abstained from swearing that Mousqueton was not a thief because, in truth, Porthos had recruited the then famished waif into his service upon Mousqueton’s trying to steal from him. And even now, when he had for many years been employed in a steady if not necessarily respectable position as a Musketeer’s servant, Mousqueton was known to supplement Porthos’ irregular pay in various and creative ways. Athos would be loathe to say how many times the young man had shown up at one of their assemblies carrying a bottle, which he swore had just fallen from an overloaded cart or a chicken which he claimed had been run over by a cart and to which Mousqueton had felt compelled to give mercy.
But Athos was sure, as he was sure of breathing, that Mousqueton would not murder anyone. And yet his words met with the sneer of one of the guards holding Mousqueton’s arm. “A fine thing to say, Monsieur, when he was found next to the murdered armorer. And the armorer’s best sword in this ruffian’s hand!”
And on this the crowd shouted again. Murderer and Thief and other things. Things about the Musketeers and their servants, duelers and bullies and riff-raff all.
Athos felt his hand fall onto the hilt of the sword strapped at his waist. “Do you call me a liar?” he shouted above the abuse of the crowd, “Do you doubt me?”
His voice, or the outrage in it, again bought a few moments of silence. But another of the guards said, “Well, Monsieur, it is not as if it is not known that this man,” he shook Mousqueton whose hands were tied together and who looked too bewildered to resist “is a thief, all too fond of taking that which doesn’t belong to him – eggs and bread and wine.”
“But…” Porthos said, stepping forward. He was twice again as large as most other men, red headed and dressed – as he normally was – in a splendid suit of golden brocade in the latest court fashion. But he looked as bewildered as his captive servant. “But, surely… taking a loaf of bread or an egg is not the same thing as killing someone, or even stealing a sword.”
“Doubtless he killed in the heat of the moment,” another guard said. “When discovered in theft.”
“We’ve told you he wouldn’t kill,” Porthos said.
“Yes, yes,” Athos said, impatiently. His hand held so tight onto the hilt that he felt as though the metal itself might snap under the force of his fury. “And they do not believe us, Porthos. They doubt the word of the King’s Musketeers.”
“With all respect,” one of the guards said, in a voice that denoted he had none, “It is not your word we doubt, so much as your knowing anything about this. We found this man unconscious and holding a sword next to an armorer that had been killed with that sword. No one else was in the shop. No one else was seen to come in. He is the murderer.”
And on this the crowd started shouting again, demanding Mousqueton’s death. And Athos – furious at being ignored feeling his face cool as blood drained from it – pulled at his sword, removing about a quarter of it from its sheath. He would have got it out all together, and challenged all five of the guards of the Cardinal to defend themselves against his fury, had not a hand held onto his arm, forcing the sword back down.
Athos turned to look into the cool gaze, the intent green eyes of his friend Aramis. Tall, slim and blond, Aramis was admired by half the women and not a few men at court. He claimed to wish to become a priest. He claimed that his passage through the Musketeers was just that – a temporary exile on his way to taking orders. But there were very few duelists in Paris who would dare cross swords with him. And the grip of his white, elongated fingers felt like bands of iron on Athos’ arm.
“Will you stop me?” Athos hissed back at him. “I can fight all five of them. Not bad odds, one of the King’s Musketeers against five guards of Richelieu. And the rabble will melt. You know they will.”
“No, Athos,” Aramis said. “You forget the edict.”
“The…” Athos said, and realized, as if on a wave of blind fury that seemed to obscure his gaze, that indeed, he had. Oh, not the edict against dueling. That had been in effect for so many years. Aramis’ own downfall, as a young divinity student, had come about because he had killed someone in a duel. But the edicts just drafted had a new force.
Dueling might have been illegal before, and brought the King’s displeasure down on your head. It did not, however, bring down your head, itself. The new edict called for any nobleman caught in duel to be beheaded in the public square. And while it was said his majesty hadn’t signed it yet, the Cardinal was bringing it before the king every day. Who knew if he’d not signed it, just moments ago.
Athos took a deep breath, trying to control his anger. Many years ago, in the grip of a lesser fury, he’d killed the woman he loved, the woman he’d believed had lied to him and betrayed him in a grotesque way – a way likely to destroy his and his family’s reputation forever. Then, on a wave of doubt and remorse, he’d entered the profession of Musketeer to punish himself for that crime – as other men might enter a monastery to expiate sin. And yet his anger remained within him, in a confused coil with his overwhelming guilt.
That the rabble dared yell at a Musketeer– That they thought they were safe– That his Eminence’s minions, themselves, would dare lay hands on a Musketeer’s servant–
“That’s well,” he said, forcing his fingers to let go of the sword. “That is all very well. But you have an innocent man, and the guilty one is still at large.”
The guard who’d first spoken – a mean man, with a ferret-like face and sparse moustaches – looked as though he was thinking of another insult to heap on the Musketeers. But his imagination or his courage failed and, instead of speaking, he gave Athos a stiff little bow. “Very well, Monsieur. If that is so, you may be able to prove it to his Eminence before the man is hanged. For now, we are taking him to the Bastille, to wait his Eminence’s pleasure.”
Mousqueton seemed to wake at those words. His eyes wild, he stared at them. “The Bastille!” he said, with the terror that the name of that infamous prison never failed to evoke. It was said that men disappeared into it never to be heard from again.
“Certainly the Bastille,” the guard said, almost primly. “For where else could we trust you to stay that your master might not break you out?”
This time it was Athos who put his arm out, to restrain Porthos’ hand as it fell on his sword. The larger Musketeer did not protest it, just stared at Athos, as the guards dragged Mousqueton away and the greater part of the crowd followed.
“Come,” the fourth member of their group – an eighteen year old Gascon, named D’Artagnan– said. “Come.” Though he was the smallest – and youngest – of them all, the dark eyes on his olive-skinned face were full of cunning and Athos knew for a fact that his head was always full of thoughts. People like D’Artagnan looked at life as a game to be well played, a game in which it was important to be always two or three moves ahead of the adversary.
“Come,” D’Artagnan said, again. And, turning, led them into a nearby alley.
“They’re escaping,” one of the mob called behind them, clearly having forgotten that they weren’t accused of anything.
“Well, if they escape, we still have their servant,” one of the guards said, chortling.
It took all of Athos’ will power, while grinding his teeth so it hurt, to keep from going back and punishing the insolence.
But D’Artagnan reached back and grasping the threadbare sleeve of Athos’ second-best doublet, looked up and urgently at his friend, “No Athos. No. It is no part of honor to fall into a trap.”
He led them right, then left again, seemingly at random, until they came to an area where there was no one else around. There D’Artagnan stopped, and turning his back to the blind wall of a garden, he looked at his friends.
“By the Mass,” Porthos said. “You should have let me fight them. They took my poor Mousqueton!”
“Your poor Mousqueton will be well, Porthos,” Aramis said.
“Well? In the Bastille?”
“Surely well, in the Bastille,” Aramis said, throwing back his head and with it the blond, shining curtain of his hair. “Surely you don’t think that they would mistreat him, much less kill him? Not when they know we will be going to Monsieur de Treville with our grievance as soon as we can get to his office. And that Monsieur de Treville will want to ensure Porthos’ servant is treated fairly? The Cardinal is not so foolish that he’ll overplay his hand this soon. He would only risk the King’s ire.”
“But…” Porthos said. And opened his hands as though his words had quite failed him. “The Bastille!”
Most Musketeers, most guards of Richelieu, probably most of the people who knew the giant Musketeer would think he was stupid. Athos, who had been one of Porthos’ closest friends for many years knew better. Porthos was an observant man, an intelligent one, and quite capable of sudden, blinding insight into the souls of men. However words themselves were Porthos’ foe, one that refused to be drawn out into the light of day. And in moments of emotion, like this, Porthos’ lack of facility with words managed to make him seem young and almost small.
“He’ll be safe, even in the Bastille for a while,” D’Artagnan said, taking the lead. “We will, of course, as Aramis says, go to our captain, Monsieur de Treville, and ask him, at once, to make sure that Mousqueton is well and that we have the time needed to prove his innocence.”
“But,” Porthos said, and clutched at his red locks in despair. “How could it come to this? I only asked him to go and get my sword repaired!”
“I was listening in the crowd,” D’Artagnan said, gravely. “While you were… disputing with the mob, I was talking to some of them, and they say that the armorer was found killed – run through with his best sword. And Mousqueton was found unconscious next to him. And you must know that Mousqueton’s reputation…” He floundered, doubtless catching some hint of annoyance in his friend Porthos’ look. “Well, everyone knows how fast Mousqueton’s fingers can be, Porthos.”
“But he wouldn’t steal a sword,” Porthos said. “To what purpose? And if he ran the armorer through, why would he be unconscious? I mean Mousqueton? Surely he wouldn’t faint at the sight of blood! He is my servant. You did tell them that, D’Artagnan, did you not?”
D’Artagnan shrugged. He looked up and his gaze met Athos’. D’Artagnan looked more troubled and worried than his calm words would lead anyone to suppose. “Porthos, they say that a hammer fell from its peg nearby – probably in the fight – and chanced to hit Mousqueton on the head, just as he killed the armorer.”
“God’s teeth!” Porthos said. “Are you telling me you believe Mousqueton killed him?”
“Mousqueton is your servant, Porthos, as you said, he cannot be a stranger to blood and killing.”
“Yes, but… it is one thing to kill someone in a duel,” Porthos said. “And another and quite different to murder someone by stealth.”
“But we don’t know if it wasn’t a duel, Porthos,” D’Artagnan said. “Or a fight.”
Porthos shook his head. “What would he have to fight with the armorer about? Good man, he was, let me have repairs on my sword on credit. He knew Mousqueton…” Words failing him, Porthos simply opened his hands.
Athos could have said many things, among them that the way life was, it was quite possible that a sudden altercation had arisen, or sudden anger. Or he could have said that Mousqueton was, after all, a little inclined to ignore the eighth commandment. But the whole situation – Mousqueton’s being unconscious when found, and clearly unable to give a coherent account of himself, even by the time his master had arrived on the scene – seemed skewed. Surely, it couldn’t be. The circumstances were just too strange. And the guards had been all too quick to seize upon Mousqueton as a culprit.
Perhaps they had accused Mousqueton out of pique against the Musketeers. Or perhaps, just perhaps, because they were hoping to hide the true culprit, if they moved fast enough.
Athos took his hand to his forehead. “I do think, D’Artagnan, that this is all a little too convenient. And, though Mousqueton is doubtless human, and could doubtless have lost his temper, I must say that his being found unconscious does not seem natural.”
“No,” D’Artagnan said. “Fear not. I agree with you. The whole thing is too convenient by far, for Mousqueton to be found unconscious with a bloodied sword in his hand. I don’t for a moment believe it all happened like that, with no one else being involved.”
“But what can we do to prove it?” Aramis asked.
D’Artagnan shrugged. “What we always do. We’ll find out what happened. We ask people who might know something. We examine the armorer’s shop.”
“And we prove Mousqueton innocent!” Porthos said.
“And we prove him innocent,” D’Artagnan said. “Others among us have been accused of murder before,” he looked at Aramis. “Surely the fact that Mousqueton is a servant doesn’t make him any less our responsibility.”
“No,” Aramis said, doubtless remembering the circumstances under which he’d been suspected of murder, circumstances far more incriminating than even Mousqueton’s. “No. Perhaps more our responsibility, since he’s more defenseless than we are.”
“Yes,” Porthos said. “We are his only family, you know? He was an orphan when I took him into my service.”
“Well, then,” Athos said, and though he heard the amusement in his own voice, he knew he was in dead earnest. “Let it be for our servants as it is for us. We’ll prove him innocent or die trying. One for all–”
“And all for one,” his friends answered in a single voice.
According To Hoyt 