Death in Gascony Read Online Free Page A

D’Artagnan’s bed. In a low voice that seemed to come from the other side of the grave, he said, “You can’t mean it. You can’t. I’ll end up as a clerk again. Most gentlemen don’t want intelligent servants. Most gentlemen would not tolerate my correcting them or…Monsieur!”
    D’Artagnan could not bear it. Through his mind, still—stark—ran his mother’s words. His father had been working for the Cardinal. And now his father was dead. Supposedly, he’d died in a duel. But D’Artagnan’s father could not have been killed in a duel, fairly fought. So that must mean…
    His heart was full of images of all he was about to lose—Athos, Porthos, Aramis. Their hours of easy camaraderie, the duels in which they all served as seconds for each other, the nights spent on guard—all would be gone, and no more than a fleeting, receding light to warm the darkness of his future years in Gascony.
    Constance would be gone too. She would go back to being just Madame Bonacieux, a beautiful woman trapped in a loveless marriage. A beautiful woman he’d known all too briefly.
    He managed not to sigh, but it took an effort. There was no room in his mind for Planchet. Planchet would accompany him to Gascony, and then he’d come back with the horses. And then one or the other of the musketeers would provide for the young servant. Surely, they would find him something. “I’m sure,” he said, “they’ll look after you. I’ve leave a note for Monsieur Athos.”
    He’d thrown all his possessions into the saddlebag, not a hard feat even if he now possessed more clothing than he had when first arriving in town. At the top he put the jar of the ointment made according to his mother’s recipe, an ointment so miraculous that, by its use, every wound that had not reached vital organs would be cured in three days. After all, it was a long journey south to Gascony, and who knew what perils he’d encounter. Particularly if his father had been murdered.
    “I’ll write notes, now, while you go borrow two horses from Monsieur de Treville’s stables. Tell them you will return them in no more than ten days. Tell them I require the horses on a matter of great urgency, but pledge my honor for their return.”
    As he spoke, he was heading towards the table where he kept some sheets of paper and an inkwell and quill. He must write to Athos and Porthos and Aramis. Separate letters, as his friends had very different natures. And he must write yet another note to Constance—which he’d enclose inside Aramis’s note for delivery, as otherwise her husband might read it first.
    He barely heard as Planchet eased his way out of the house into the evening outside.

How Not To Wake a Musketeer;
A Little Perfidy in the Right Place
    A THOS woke up with someone climbing in through his window. Or rather, he woke up with the window slowly creaking open and then scuffing sounds, as though someone were dragging himself up through the window.
    It was so impossible, so patently impossible for anyone to be insane enough to break into a musketeer’s room—much less the room of one of the most dangerous of that band of barely disciplined ruffians—that Athos knew he had to be dreaming. Asleep on the massive, curtained bed that he’d brought with him from his estate, wearing only his shirt, he turned in bed, trying to find a more comfortable position.
    This turn caused the linen sheet and the blanket to slip aside. He felt a cold current of air. Cold. As if someone had opened the window, prior to climbing in. The scuffing sounds were followed by two light thumps, like the sound of a not very heavy someone jumping into the room.
    Athos rose. He rose before waking, tearing aside the linen sheet. His hand grabbed for the sword that he kept always by the side of the bed. By the time he opened his eyes fully, he was standing, sword in hand, bearing down on a slim figure by the window.
    The figure—little more than an indistinct darker patch in the