Death in Gascony Read Online Free Page B

surrounding gloom—was that of a tall young man, or perhaps a woman. Tall, almost as tall as Athos himself, but much, much slimmer, with no sign of the muscles that made the musketeer a dangerous foe in combat. It made a bleating sound and pressed itself against the wall, arms splayed against it, as if it were trying to crawl into the wall.
    “Ruffian,” Athos said. “You thought you could come through my window and kill me while I slept. Do you go about robbing innocent men in their sleep?”
    And to scare the creature—whom Athos could tell wasn’t armed, and whom he merely wished to terrify away from a criminal life—Athos thrust his sword forward, stopping a hair’s breadth from the intruder’s chest.
    “Monsieur,” the creature bleated. And, on a deep breath, drawn in with force, like that of a drowning man, he added, “Monsieur Athos, it is I.”
    Athos blinked. That someone would break into his room was impossible enough. That it was someone who knew him—not only by reputation but by name—was unbelievable. No one, not a single one of his friends would presume that far upon their friendship as to startle Athos out of a sound sleep and count on escaping unscathed before the musketeer even regained his senses.
    This was not one of his friends. Athos blinked again. “Who—”
    “Monsieur, it’s Planchet. You must help me with my master.”
    “D’Artagnan,” Athos said, his voice filled with alarm. The young guard, almost young enough to be his son, had become somewhat Athos’s adopted son in these last six months. By virtue of being the oldest of the musketeers, the erstwhile Count de la Fere had made it his business to keep the youngest of his friends out of trouble. Which, given D’Artagnan’s nature, often proved a fraught and slippery business. “What has happened to D’Artagnan? Speak. Is he wounded?”
    But Planchet only bleated again, “Monsieur,” and Athos realized that he was still holding his blade in close proximity to Planchet’s heart, and that there was a good chance the youth was scared.
    He withdrew the blade and, by touch, made his way to the mantel in his room, from which he grabbed a candle in its pewter candlestick. He lit it from an ember in the banked fire in his hearth.
    The wick, flaring to life, revealed a very pale Planchet still knit with the wall, as though fearing another bout of homicidal madness from Athos.
    “Don’t be a fool,” Athos said, and setting the candle on the mantel, started casting about for his breeches and doublet. “What of your master? With what do you need my help? Is he wounded? Surely not. We left him hale. Did he—”
    “He’s mad,” Planchet said.
    Athos looked over his shoulder, as the young servant took a step away from the window. “If by mad you mean wandering in his wits, I doubt it. D’Artagnan is one of the shrewdest men I know. Granted, the shock and grief over his father’s death,” Athos said, remembering the contents of the letter he’d taken from Planchet’s hand and read before passing it on to D’Artagnan, “might cause him to act a little distraught. But…mad?”
    Planchet leaned against the wall again, this time as if he needed support. His skin was ashen grey, in shocking contrast with his hair. “He’s getting ready to leave for Gascony now,” he said. “Even as we speak, there are two horses tied at your door. They belong to Monsieur de Treville, and they will be used to carry my master and myself to Gascony. From whence I am to come back and return the horses.”
    “You are to come back?” Athos asked. “But we’d said—We’d agreed—” He controlled himself and pressed his lips together, as though grimly accepting the inevitable. “I see,” he said. “And your master?”
    “He stays in Gascony, monsieur. He says he’s his father’s only son and that he must fulfill his duty. He says—”
    “Doubtless a great deal of nonsense,” Athos said, pulling his doublet laces so tight that