A Few Things to Get You By

Monsieur Aramis suspected he was about to be caught in a trap.

This feeling was new to the man who, having joined the musketeers to escape a charge of killing his opponent in his very first duel, had soon become known as one of the four most fearsome sword-fighters in France.

Slim,blond and poised, Monsieur Aramis talked like a court fop, and might be discounted by those who didn’t know him well at all. Those who knew him, on the other hand, were aware of the sudden death deal by his word and, more importantly, the intrigues and traps that his cunning mind could build for those who chose to cross him or to attempt anything against the King, the Queen or Aramis’ friends: Athos, Porthos or D’Artagnan.

Which was why the fear that looked back at Aramis from the depths of his polished tin mirror struck him as so odd. As did the feeling that there were things moving in the depths of events around him, vast shadowy conspiracies that would strike him when he least expected it.

He turned around from the mirror with an impatient movement that made the cloak he’d flung over his shoulders twirl about in a wide arc. He was not used to wearing a dark cloak, made of plain wool. In fact, the one he now wore was his servant Bazin’s, and therefore much too short and much too wide, since the musketeer’s servant was neither known as tall nor slim.

Let it be, Aramis told himself. The more ill-dressed, the less like himself, and that too was a good thing, when he suspected there were conspirators in the shadows, aiming for Aramis. Or perhaps for that Chevalier D’Herblay who hid under the name of Aramis and Aramis’ musketeer uniform.

His movement brought him face to face with one of his friends – Athos. The only one to whom Aramis had confessed his errand tonight. And if the look of fear in Aramis’ own eyes scared the musketeer, he wouldn’t even dwell upon the expression in Athos’ dark eyes.

Athos was not, at the best of times, of a clear and open countenance. A thirty year old man, he looked younger, or at least well preserved, with clear pale skin, long black hair and the sort of manner that, in old breeches and moth-eaten, outdated doublet, could allow him to throw back his head and step forward and, suddenly, look nobler and more important than Aramis in his well-cut silks and velvets or even their splendid friend Porthos, in his gold embroidery and jeweled rings.

But Athos’ blue eyes, so dark that they resembled nothing so much as the unlit sky of an August night, never showed fear. Sometimes they did show rage. Or perhaps something else, that Aramis was loathe to examine for fear it would be polar coldness and uncaring. But today they looked yet more unreadable than normal, half-hooded by his lowered eyelids.

Athos too looked strange, his pale countenance touched by red fire at the cheeks, as though he were running a fever, or perhaps excited by what they were about to do. But what Athos could find exciting in keeping a rendez vous that would possibly lead to their arrest. Perhaps, and Aramis would not forebear to think it, Athos longed for death and knew he was about to meet it.

And on that thought, Aramis stopped. “Perhaps,” he said, as his hand felt underneath his cloak for the sword pummel that felt like security and aid in trouble to him. “Perhaps we should not do this, Athos.”

Athos made a sound like hitting his teeth with his tongue, hard. The dark eyebrows lowered over the half-veiled eyes. His hand, too, went to his sword, and Aramis wasn’t sure it was not a threatening gesture.

But then he let go of the sword and sighed. “Can you think of anything else we might do in the circumstances?”

Aramis felt his fingertips touch his forehead, before he realized he had raised his hand, and turned away from his friend to hide his confusion. He walked to the window of his chamber, swathed in heavy, expensive velvet, the gift of one of Aramis’ lady friends. “I don’t know. Perhaps I should meet with Saint Clar in private? In … in these chambers?”

“What?” Athos said. There was to his voice a tinge of that irony that Aramis normally deployed so freely and which he disliked excessively hearing used against himself. “Do you think perhaps that your chambers are immune from being spied upon? Or do you believe perhaps, that being used to a stream of visitors, the Cardinals spies will forebear to notice this one? It would seem to be that being male, he would stand out, considering none of the others are.” A brief pause, which, were his interlocutor anyone but Athos, Aramis would have expected to hear laughter. “Unless, of course, you can convince him to wear a dress.”

“Saint Clar is a priest, Athos. In holy orders!” Aramis said, his confused outrage forcing the words out, even as he turned around to see that though Athos wasn’t laughing, an amused smile turned the tips of his lips upwards. “Oh, very well. So am I, in my heart, and I recall all too well that I was forced into a green dress. But I was in danger of my life.”

“And you wore a sword beneath,” Athos said, in appeasing tones.

Aramis ignored the comment he didn’t know how to answer, and instead, went once more over what he knew so far, “Saint Clar is a somber man, of an exacting tone of mind. I know such is not the norm in those that climb to the confidence of people in power, but Saint Clar is so openly and obviously saintly that he has managed to become the confessor to half the court. At least the higher reaches of it. I… I have not spoken to him since my days as a seminarian, and in fact, I’m not sure how he found who I was or under what name I was hiding.”

Athos was examining his fingernails, a seemingly riveting occupation that Aramis normally employed to avoid giving anything away with his expression. When had his friend become so accomplished at employing Aramis’ own weapons against himself?

“Perhaps some… seamstress let him know it,” Athos said. His face turned in such a way that Aramis could not see if he was smiling or not. Which was very good, because if he were smiling – mocking Aramis’ for his human frailty that made it hard for him to resist female charms even while he was, as he viewed it, on a transitory detour to his vocation as a priest – Aramis would have to challenge him to a duel. “Or perhaps the niece of your theology teacher?”

Instead of saying what he wished to, Aramis expelled breath in a hiss, and said, “Perhaps,” then proceeded to the main point. “But the fact remains he would not write to me, nor ask me to meet him at this celebration tonight, were it not that he believes he has encountered something that needs my help and expertise.” He opened his arms wide. “And before you suggest the expertise he needs might be theology or the lives of saints, there is only one thing in which I am more qualified than my old friend Saint Clar – dueling. Using my sword.”

Athos opened his mouth and for just a moment looked like he was about to make some ironic comment, but then shook his head, as if answering himself. “No, Aramis, there is something else in which perforce you must be better than your friend, unless… That is, I don’t suppose your friend is as expert in court intrigues as you are.”

“Of course he is, Athos,” Aramis said, curtly. “He might not participate in them, but he has to know of them. He is the confessor to most of the would-be intriguers. Unworldly and saintly he might be. But a fool, he’s not.”

Athos inclined his head. “But then…” he said, considering. “You forget that there is another ability that you have, beyond the use of your sword. Or do you believe that the way the four inseparables have managed to discover the murderer in four mysterious deaths hasn’t made its way through court.”

“But what death?” Aramis asked. “For Saint Clar to be concerned, it would have to be an important death, at court. And there has been known. At least… Poor Mousqueton’s affianced bride was murdered, but she was only a servant, and I doubt that Saint Clar would even be aware of it.”

“So it must be a death we can prevent. Some… great conspiracy, as you told me before. Which means…”

“A conspiracy against the king, the queen or the cardinal.”

“All of which are dangerous, particularly the last,” Athos said. “And all of which are a good reason to have sent back a note to Saint Clar saying you’d meet him in this public feast. In the confusion of people, no one will note that you saw him, or said anything to him. While if he comes to your lodgings…”

“Yes, yes,” Aramis said, impatiently. “But it doesn’t feel right. To be doing this, and without our friends.”

“There is no reason to risk Porthos’ or D’Artagnan’s lives in this,” Athos said. “Yours might be implicated, anyway, at least if anyone knows this friend of yours approached you. And mine…” he shrugged as though to signify it did not matter.

Aramis had to agree with him. The four of them might be inseparable, but there was no reason to risk the lives of Porthos – a towering red headed giant who would never recognize a court intrigue if it danced naked in front of him – and D’Artagnan who might be a cunning Gascon, but who, at nineteen, was only slightly older than a child and had much life and promise in front of him.

But, Aramis thought to himself as he climbed down the stairs of his lodging next to Athos, he could not like the expression in Athos’ face, or the look of odd excitement just barely repressed that seemed to permeate his friend’s movements and gaze.

The most fearsome thing in this possible trap, Aramis thought to himself, was that as far as Aramis was concerned, Athos might very well be in on it. Or at least, Athos had never before shown this much interest in anything that involved going out in public and never – Aramis thought as he looked at his friend walking amid the festive crowds, hurrying to the public gardens for the feast being given by the king to the city – had looked this alive. And even though Athos liked his wine almost as much as he liked air to breathe, Aramis had trouble believing that it was his interest in the free-flowing wine that quickened his step and made him look much younger.

The wonderful idea that he was about to meet the unknown with only an unknown to guard his back made him groan. Too late he thought to cover his bright-blond hair with the hood of his cloak, an indiscretion he could only attribute to his nervousness. Not the least of fears – beyond the risk that he would attract the attention of some enemy – was that Porthos and D’Artagnan would see Athos and Aramis leave Aramis’ lodgings and know that the different, separate excuses they’d given for not attending the feast were lies. Aramis might lie to his friends, but his tender conscience smarted at the idea he might wound them by having them know themselves deceived.

The further they walked away from Aramis’ lodgings, the more they found themselves engulfed in a jostling crowd. This was a new experience, since normally the crowds gave enough room to the king’s musketeers and their swords.

This crowd, however, wasn’t thinking of any such thing, but only of amusement. Men and women walked hand in hand, men called to their friends, and small urchins squeezed through the increasingly heavy press of bodies, doing whatever it was that Paris urchins did. Twice, Aramis had swatted a small hand intent on rummaging through his garments, doubtless for coin.

More and more the press of bodies pushed them and squeezed them, and led them this way and that. It was all that Aramis could manage to keep the dark hood of Athos’ cloak in sight.

He felt considerable relief as he saw, ahead, the trees of the gardens and the blazes of light of the luminaries placed amid them to light the festivities.

For a moment, he looked, to orient himself. The note he’d sent St. Clair had said that they should meet at the edge of the garden, where the wall to the nearby cemetery provided shelter and shadows, in which they might hide to talk. By the orange tree, next to the cemetery wall, Aramis had said. He looked at the trees visible now and over the press of people – fortunately fanning out and giving him more breathing room – to find that familiar landmark, then turned back to Athos to motion that he should follow. And stopped. Athos was nowhere to be found.

Oh, of course Athos had been wearing a dark cloak and hood, which would make him indistinguishable in the current press – but the thing was that Athos was never really indistinguishable. At most the dark cloak might retard recognition by someone who didn’t know him very well or did not expect him to be there. There was to Athos’ bearing, his way of walking that distinctive mark of the high-born that would have made him easily identifiable, were he dressed as a farmer and covered in manure – an image that made Aramis bite his tongue to prevent himself smiling. Particularly since there was nothing to smile about, as his frantic look all around discovered neither trace nor sign of his friend.

The idea that some unnamed persons had gotten hold of Athos and dragged him away blossomed in Aramis’ mind only to be dismissed. He couldn’t imagine Athos being dragged away without fighting, and indeed, killing most of his opponents. He gathered breath to whisper “Athos,” though his circling turn didn’t show him Athos within the reach of his voice.

And then he saw him. Athos. Beneath one of the nearby trees. His head was turned, and he was speaking to someone – a small and graceful figure, dressed as a page, but, Aramis would swear to it, not a male. In fact there was something haunting about what he could see of the woman’s rounded cheek, the shining blond hair beneath the page’s hat pulled just so as to hide most of the hair and most of the face.

Had it been any other musketeer, this would only have occasioned an impatient sigh from Aramis, and his proceeding to get his friend. But Athos did not voluntarily consort with females. The disaster that had propelled him into the musketeers involved a woman who had married Athos under false pretenses and whom Athos had executed when it was revealed she was a common criminal. The incident had left Athos with an invincible hatred and disdain for women. His comments on the subject were legion. It was not possible nor credible that the older musketeer had taken advantage of Aramis’ errand for an assignation.