The fifth book in the Musketeers Mystery series, 2008

ATHOS was not used to being looked at with suspicion and hostility, much less suspicion and hostility from mere commoners-a confused rabble of women and children, servants and passersby, the dregs and crowds of early afternoon in Paris.

In fact, the oldest of the three musketeers and the guard of Monsieur des Essarts, commonly known as the inseparables-Athos, Porthos, Aramis and D’Artagnan-wasn’t used to being looked at directly at all. Though he had now, for some years, lived under a nom de guerre in the ranks of his Majesty’s musketeers, Athos normally got treated as the nobleman he was.

No matter how much blond and elegant Aramis preened, and no matter how many yards of lace and gold brocade the splendid redheaded giant Porthos draped himself in, Athos could make them all fade into the background simply by stepping forward and throwing back his head. In his much-mended musketeer’s uniform, his curly black hair tied back with a bit of ribbon, the gaze from his dark blue eyes guarded, he looked like what he was born to be: the scion of one of France ’s oldest and noblest families.

And he wasn’t used to people not listening when he spoke; he wasn’t used to being doubted; he certainly wasn’t used to having his words shouted down.

Yet the words, “I will stand by-” had barely left his lips when the crowd shouted back at him, in confused tumult, drowning him out.

What the crowd shouted-“murder” and “thief” and “hang him”-was not directed at the musketeer himself, but Athos could not have been more surprised if it had been.

He surveyed the scene before him, his face setting into a hard look composed half of determination and half of disdain.

Porthos’s servant, Mousqueton, almost as tall as his master and nearly as powerful, looked bewildered, held by five guards of the Cardinal. And around them the crowd surged. Behind them was the armorer’s shop, where Porthos had sent Mousqueton to arrange for Porthos’s sword to be mended.

It was a low-slung building, and its wide door normally stood open to the outside street-to allow the inner air, warmed by the forge, to cool. But now the heavy oak doors were shut and there were muscular locals standing in front of them. When the musketeers had come to find the long-delayed Mousqueton, they’d stumbled on this scene of confusion and public disorder and just managed to step in front of the guards dragging Porthos’s servant away.

Athos raised his hand towards the crowd, palm out, an imperious gesture. His assumption of authority quieted them for a moment. Into the silence, Athos poured his words, “I will vouch for Mousqueton. He is my friend Porthos’s”-he indicated the redheaded giant just behind him with a head tilt-“servant and I’ve known him long. He is not a murderer.”

He abstained from swearing that Mousqueton was not a thief because, in truth, Porthos had recruited the then famished waif into his service upon Mousqueton’s trying to steal from him. And even now, when he had for many years been employed in a steady if not necessarily respectable position as a musketeer’s servant, Mousqueton was known to supplement Porthos’s irregular pay in various and creative ways. Athos would be loath to say how many times the young man had shown up at one of their assemblies carrying a bottle, which he swore had just fallen from an overloaded cart, or a chicken, which he claimed had been run over by a cart and to which Mousqueton had felt compelled to give mercy.

But Athos was sure, as he was sure of breathing, that Mousqueton would not murder anyone. And yet his words met with the sneer of one of the guards holding Mousqueton’s arm. “A fine thing to say, monsieur, when he was found next to the murdered armorer. And the armorer’s best sword in this ruffian’s hand!”

And on this the crowd shouted again. “Murderer” and “thief” and other things. Things about the musketeers and their servants, duelers and bullies and riffraff all.

Athos felt his hand fall onto the hilt of the sword strapped at his waist. “Do you call me a liar?” he shouted above the abuse of the crowd, “Do you doubt me?”

His voice, or the outrage in it, again brought a few moments of silence. But another of the guards said, “Well, monsieur, it is not as if it is not known that this man”-he shook Mousqueton, whose hands were tied together and 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?