paler yet; his dark blue eyes opened wide. “Aramis,” he said.
The other two men stood and turned, swords in hand. One of them, the smaller one with the dark hair, wore not the musketeer’s uniform, but the similar uniform of the guards of Monsieur des Essarts, in a paler blue than the Musketeer’s clothes. He was very young, not yet twenty, dark haired and dark eyed, with the olive complexion of Gascony which was close to the border with Spain. He turned with the feline grace that was his characteristic.
The larger one—a giant with red hair and beard—stood and turned with the gracefulness of a dancer or a fencing master. His handsome face was undeniably that of Aramis’s oldest friend, Porthos.
“Please,” Aramis said, his strength almost gone, his heart beating at his throat from the sound of dogs approaching from behind. It was all he could do not to run and try to hide behind his friends. “Please. You have to help me.”
A Fugitive in Need; Where Four Show They Think Like One; A Fine Predicament
ATHOS heard the sound of approaching feet and, farther off, the sound of dogs and pursuit. He stood.
Out of the gathering dark, gloomier here where the shadow of the wall hid the moon than in most places around the palace, a strange apparition came running. He was tall and blond and had, in general, the form and shape of Aramis.
Athos’s mind told him it was Aramis, but his senses denied it. He’d never seen Aramis like this. It was not like his gallant friend to be running around naked, covered in blood, with a dagger between his teeth and an expression of pure panic on his regular features. And was that twigs entwined in the long blond hair that Aramis normally brushed till it glimmered?
“Holla, who goes there?” that part of Athos that refused to admit this could be one of his oldest and closest friends asked.
The man took the dagger from between his teeth, and held it in his hand, tip down, in such a way it was clear he had no intention of attacking. “Athos,” he rasped.
There was such a tone of relief in the voice, such a tone of having found just the sanctuary he’d been looking for that Athos could no longer deny who this was. “Aramis,” he said.
And on the name, his two other friends stood up, D’Artagnan quickly scooping the dice into his leather cup as he went.
“Help me,” Aramis said. “You have to help me. They’re after me. They will catch me. They think I murdered—”
“Silence,” Athos said. There was the sound of dogs and the sound of pursuit from behind, and surely Aramis didn’t mean to speak that loudly. There was only one thing to do, but Athos was afraid of saying anything, of calling any attention. At any rate, he was a man of quick mind but few words. The natural garrulousness of youth had been quelled in him for over ten years, since the day he’d hanged his wife from a low branch in his park and left his ancestral home and his title of count to join the musketeers under an assumed name.
Instead of talking, he unlaced his cloak, threw it over Aramis’s shoulders. He looked at D’Artagnan and in the dark, quick eyes of their youngest friend, he caught comprehension. D’Artagnan removed his hat and shoved the mass of Aramis’s hair under it, before pushing the hat on Aramis’s head. It was a plumed hat and blue. True the blue was somewhat different than the one the musketeers wore, but in this dark place, only those who had reason to suspect it would look for the color difference.
To Athos’s surprise, Porthos, a man who thought with his huge hands, his sharp, overdeveloped senses, didn’t need an explanation. By the time D’Artagnan stepped away— having pulled Aramis’ hat down over his face to hide his blood-stained features—Porthos was there, holding out what seemed like a pair of breeches.
A casual glance revealed that he had not indeed exposed himself. The breeches he had on were embroidered velvet. The ones he held out to Aramis were over-breeches, slashed, to allow the embroidery to shine through.
Count on Porthos to wear twice as many clothes as needed. However, the plain dark breeches, when on Aramis, were loose enough not to display the slashes.
Athos nodded his approval, and nothing remained but to fish in his sleeve for his own, silken handkerchief and use it to clean Aramis’s face of