who looked too bewildered to resist—“is a thief, all too fond of taking that which doesn’t belong to him—eggs and bread and wine.”
“But . . .” Porthos said, stepping forward. He was twice again as large as most other men, redheaded and dressed—as he normally was—in a splendid suit of golden brocade in the latest court fashion. But he looked as bewildered as his captive servant. “But, surely . . . taking a loaf of bread or an egg is not the same thing as killing someone, or even stealing a sword.”
“Doubtless he killed in the heat of the moment,” another guard said. “When discovered in theft.”
“We’ve told you he wouldn’t kill,” Porthos said.
“Yes, yes,” Athos said, impatiently. His hand held so tight onto the hilt that he felt as though the metal itself might snap under the force of his fury. “And they do not believe us, Porthos. They doubt the word of the King’s Musketeers.”
“With all respect,” one of the guards said, in a voice that denoted he had none, “it is not your word we doubt, so much as your knowing anything about this. We found this man unconscious and holding a sword next to an armorer that had been killed with that sword. No one else was in the shop. No one else was seen to come in. He is the murderer.”
And on this the crowd started shouting again, demanding Mousqueton’s death. And Athos—furious at being ignored, feeling his face cool as blood drained from it—pulled at his sword, removing about a quarter of it from its sheath. He would have got it out altogether, and challenged all five of the guards of the Cardinal to defend themselves against his fury, had not a hand held onto his arm, forcing the sword back down.
Athos turned to look into the cool gaze, the intent green eyes of his friend Aramis. Tall, slim and blond, Aramis was admired by half the women and not a few men at court. He claimed a wish to become a priest. He claimed that his passage through the musketeers was just that—a temporary exile on his way to taking orders. But there were very few duelists in Paris who would dare cross swords with him. And the grip of his white, elongated fingers felt like bands of iron on Athos’s arm.
“Will you stop me?” Athos hissed back at him. “I can fight all five of them. Not bad odds, one of the King’s Musketeers against five guards of Richelieu. And the rabble will melt. You know they will.”
“No, Athos,” Aramis said. “You forget the edict.”
“The . . .” Athos said, and realized, as if on a wave of blind fury that seemed to obscure his gaze, that indeed, he had. Oh, not the edict against dueling. That had been in effect for many years. Aramis’s own downfall, as a young divinity student, had come about because he had killed someone in a duel. But the edicts just drafted had a new force.
Dueling might have been illegal before, and brought the King’s displeasure down on your head. It did not, however, bring down your head, itself. The new edict called for any nobleman caught in duel to be beheaded in the public square. And while it was said his Majesty hadn’t signed it yet, the Cardinal was bringing it before the King every day. Who knew if he’d not signed it, just moments ago?
Athos took a deep breath, trying to control his anger. Many years ago, in the grip of a lesser fury, he’d killed the woman he loved, the woman he’d believed had lied to him and betrayed him in a grotesque way—a way likely to destroy his and his family’s reputation forever. Then, on a wave of doubt and remorse, he’d entered the profession of musketeer to punish himself for that crime—as other men might enter a monastery to expiate sin. And yet his anger remained within him, in a confused coil with his overwhelming guilt.
That the rabble dared yell at a musketeer—That they thought they were safe—That his eminence’s minions, themselves, would dare lay hands on a musketeer’s servant—
“That’s well,” he said, forcing his fingers to let go of the sword. “That is all very well. But you have an innocent man, and the guilty one is still at large.”
The guard who’d first spoken—a mean man, with a ferret-like face and sparse moustaches—looked as though he was thinking of another insult to heap on the musketeers. But his imagination or