Dying by the Sword

A Surfeit of Roasted Chicken; A Letter from a Lady

ATHOS looked down the expanse of his dining room table. Very rarely was Grimaud’s insistence that they eat in the dining room justified as it was now. The table was, in fact, almost too crowded. In addition to his four friends, all four of their servants were present and sitting at the table. Though after Grimaud’s arguments, they had decided to allow the servants to sit at the foot of the table.

And from Grimaud’s glare, he would keep the others in place if it killed him.

The top of the table itself was entirely covered in roast chicken, ham, and a multitude of bottles of wine. The chicken and the ham were from the farmers. Jean and Marc had sworn that the chickens-about a dozen of them-had got badly trampled or burned in the hearth after being stampeded into the kitchen, and so, the only thing for them was to kill them, roast them and send them to the musketeers as a gift.

No one had explained why they’d also sent the ham-since it was cured and therefore at least weeks old-and the bread, but Athos, who had listened to the two of them go on, guessed they were quite likely to tell them that these had gotten trampled in the stampede, as well, and therefore must be put out of their misery. They lied with the same glib ease as Mousqueton, on whom the news of Hermengarde’s death had fallen like a lead weight. He still looked teary and had that expression of a man whose hopes had come crashing around his head.

All he’d told Athos was, “You were always right, monsieur, women are the devil. I don’t know which hurts more, that Langelier had to kill her so she wouldn’t insist he marry her or… Or that she is dead. But it hurts all the same.”

And Athos, knowing himself at risk, could do nothing but silently sympathize.

“It was a lovely wedding, though,” Porthos said. “Even if the groom was tied up.”

“And gagged,” Aramis said. “Don’t forget gagged. I had to reassure the bon cure that the man meant, indeed, to say yes.”

“Well, he scarcely had any other choice,” D’Artagnan said, as he disposed of a full chicken, heaped on plate. “You pulled his hair so his head must perforce nod.”

“I was only doing my duty, to preserve a poor lady from sin,” Aramis said, piously.

“And the ways of the Lord are inscrutable,” Porthos said.

“Besides,” Aramis said, totally ignoring the proffered bait, “you have to agree there was something in the way of poetic justice, to bringing him back to Paris in a box and presenting him to the Cardinal all tied up.”

Athos was about to open his mouth, to say that he wondered if the Cardinal still thought that Athos was working on his behalf, even now, and to remind them there was a good chance he’d already agreed to let Charlotte have her way with him, and that she would be an adversary to reckon with in the future. In fact, for all their present joy at having Mousqueton back, Athos wasn’t sure that all-or any of them-could survive long enough to defeat the woman who had briefly been Countess de la Fere.

Before he could speak, there was a loud pounding on the door.

Grimaud, who got up to go answer, came back almost immediately, looking baffled and holding up a sheet of expensive cream paper, from which a delicate perfume wafted.

“Ah, that will be for me,” Aramis said.

But Grimaud only directed a glare at him, then a glare at the letter, and finally a glare at Athos, in whose lap he dropped it.

The letter said only, “To Monsieur le Comte de-”

The seal was blank and Athos lifted it impatiently. Inside, a well-formed hand said, “There is a public feast given by the court in a week. Marie Michon would like to meet the count at it. Will he meet her there? She shall be wearing a cream dress, with a blue hat, and a rose at her bosom.”

Athos felt as though his hand went nerveless. He dropped the note in his lap.

“What is wrong?” Porthos asked. “Is it from milady?” Athos shook his head. “No, no. It is nothing, just a silly dare.”

And in his heart of hearts, he wondered if he did dare.