Sarah D'Almeida: The Musketeer's Apprentice

“And you taught him?” Athos asked.

Porthos looked up. Suddenly he smiled. For the first time since he’d come in looking dismal and cold and lost, he looked like himself. “Not because of the blackmail,” he said. “Look, he was a child. Barely twelve. And all of us when we were children, we were subjected to our parents’ whims. My father didn’t want me to learn to read, and Aramis’s mother didn’t want him to learn to fight. And Athos-” he stopped. Their eyes met and Porthos’s smile died away entirely and he shrugged.

Athos wondered what he’d been about to say. Porthos and Athos had never, that he knew, discussed Athos’s upbringing. In fact, of all of them, he was the one who’d been least inclined to speak of his upbringing and background. They might know of the crime that had sent him into the musketeers, to flee his conscience more than anything else. But of the time before that, they knew nothing. Athos was not curious enough to ask. Porthos had an inconvenient habit of knowing the truth. He looked away from Porthos and at Monsieur de Treville sitting judgelike behind his desk.

“Well, I felt that sometimes parents don’t know what’s best for their child,” Porthos said. His voice had lost some of its force but regained it as he went on. “And Guillaume’s parents might not want him to learn to fight, and they might intend him for the church, but some of our best fighters have been men in orders and some of our best religious men have been fierce swordsmen.”

“Indeed,” Aramis said, not without irony. “His eminence Cardinal Richelieu, himself.”

It was like Porthos not to take this for a challenge but to accept it as a comment, Athos thought. Because Richelieu had indeed been a fierce duelist in his youth.

Porthos clearly saw nothing wrong with the mention of him. “Like him,” he said. “So I thought what harm does it do to teach Guillaume a little swordplay, if he can get away from his parents to learn? What ill does it do? Who cares?”

“His parents perhaps,” Aramis said, his voice cutting cold.

“Well, perhaps,” Porthos said, and shrugged. “But I figured somehow, and soon enough, that boy would be out on his own and he would do as he pleased. And if he was so desperate to learn that he went through the trouble of finding out who I was and coming to me…” He spread his hands across the top of his hat. “I thought the least I could do is teach him.”

“And did his family find out?” Athos asked sharply. “Are you sure he died by poison and not from a beating? Some parents…”

Porthos shook his head. “No marks on him. Almost for sure poison, unless someone hit him on the head. He was talking about angels and flying.”

Aramis, facing Athos over Porthos’s inclined head quirked an eyebrow. Athos shrugged. It could be anything. The boy’s father might have found out and punished him severely. But why should he? “Wouldn’t it have been easier for the parents to prevent the boy from coming to lessons?” he said.

“Exactly,” said Monsieur de Treville. He brought his hands up, with his wrists resting on the polished desk, and touched the tips of his fingers together. “Exactly what I was thinking, Athos. I was also thinking that no matter how determined to devote the child to the church, few parents would view this delinquency as little more than a show of spirit.”

“And if they were determined to send him to the church,” Aramis said, “they were more likely to punish him by making him repeat maxims of the Testament or study his theology.” Somehow he managed an audible shudder in his disciplined, well-bred voice.

Porthos raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

“Exactly,” Monsieur de Treville said again, and then, looking straight at Porthos. “Jaucourt, you said? Not a name known to me. A noble family, you think?”

“He referred to his father as the gentleman Jaucourt,” Porthos said.

“I’ve never heard of them,” Monsieur de Treville said. “Of course there are many families come from provincial domains in search of fortune or royal favor in Paris whose names wouldn’t be known to me. But usually, if a family is at court, some rumor of their presence, some reference to one of their retainers, reaches my ears.” He wiggled his fingers against each other and seemed immersed in black thoughts. “Did he ever tell you how he found out your true identity, Porthos?”

“Sir?” Porthos asked, puzzled.

“If he was truly twelve,” Monsieur de Treville said. “Or thereabouts, surely he can’t have done a great deal of searching out the truth on his own. How would he come by it?”

Porthos shrugged. “It’s… People know it, Captain. I lived in Paris before I joined the musketeers.” He opened his hands and if to signal the obvious. “And I’m not exactly one of those people who pass unnoticed in a crowd.”

Monsieur de Treville nodded, but his long, thin-fingered hand stroked at his well-trimmed beard. “Doubtless,” he said, and smiled a little as if to acknowledge that the thought of Porthos passing unnoticed in any crowd was ridiculous. “But it’s been many years, Porthos, and how would the boy know?”

Porthos shrugged again. “Perhaps his father knew?”

“From a noble family so newly arrived to Paris that we’ve never heard of their name? Unlikely, my friend,” the captain said.

“But then,” Athos said, “what do you think is behind all this?” As for himself, he couldn’t anymore have articulated a coherent theory than he could have hazarded a reasonable-sounding guess, but something was working at the back of his mind, something that made the hair stand on end at the nape of his neck.

Monsieur de Treville shook his head. “I hesitate to say it,” he said. “Since it is possible I am wrong and just of habit attributing the worst of villainy to a foe. But the Cardinal bears you some ill will-has born all of you some ill will for a long time, for being the fiercest fighters in his Majesty’s Musketeers. And since these past two recent incidents in which you foiled his plans…” [1]Monsieur de Treville drummed his fingers on the desktop. “Well, his animosity for you knows no bounds. I would say, Porthos my friend, it is quite likely the boy was sent to you and told who you were. That his death owes something to the Cardinal. And that things are set to accuse you of murder, in an attempt to defend yourself from blackmail. What-” The captain stopped. Porthos was shaking his head violently.

“No,” he said. “Guillaume was sincere and sincerely seeking instruction in sword fighting.”

The captain shrugged. “Perhaps. I did not say he wasn’t. Only that the Cardinal was behind sending him to you and that the Cardinal is behind his death. Or might be. Just because Cardinal Richelieu is the greatest power in France, more powerful even than the King, it doesn’t follow that every plot and every evil should be laid at his door. However, a lot of them can be, and it also doesn’t follow that he is innocent in this one.”

“And,” Athos said, feeling his uneasiness answered by the captain’s theory, “the truth is that it would be all too easy for him to find a young boy of small nobility, dissatisfied with his lot in life, and to arm him with the means to approach you. It would be no more unlikely than his finding an orphan and putting her in a position to impersonate the Queen, all without the poor young woman knowing she was being used at all. [2]It could have happened that way, Porthos.”

“But… a child?” Porthos asked.

“If the Cardinal thought it fit his views of what is good for France, I think he’d willingly kill a newborn dauphin in his swaddling clothes.”

Porthos looked at Athos, intently, his eyes focusing seemingly with all his will. “If the Cardinal has anything to do with Guillaume’s death, he shall be called out, Cardinal or not.”