Disclaimer – 3 Musketeers and the characters belong to Alexander Dumas.
Response to the Grimaud challenge. Grimaud confesses his role in an event long ago.
Aid and Abet
Confession? I have hardly any secret sins left that I care to share… Oui, it is about time, I guess. My master's dead now, reunited with young master Raoul who fell in battle. Sad when an old house like theirs ends. The estate would go to a distant cousin, some upstart from Marseilles with hardly any noble blood to speak… I better quit prattling on like a fishwife or you'd be here all night.
Well, it was very long ago, well before Master Raoul... The day started off like any other. My master and his wife rode out that spring morning. Yes, he had a wife, even though most would consider her little more than a harlot. The old Comte never approved of her and he never gave his blessings for the match. There were rumours about the woman and her so-called brother but my master was so besotted with her. I was away visiting my ailing grandfather when my master wed her. Oh, he soon came to regret it I suppose. They had little quarrels like all couples do but there was something else underneath which wasn't all that right, you know what I mean?
The old Comte had passed on barely a week. I recall with distaste the lady's bright yellow gown, which was way too festive for a house still in mourning. To be honest, that woman was nothing but trouble. My master was wearing his usual riding clothes. Perhaps the outing was his idea as much as hers. I had helped the cook pack their luncheon into their saddlebags.
A few hours before sundown, my master returned alone leading his wife's steed alongside his. Perhaps I felt the first hints of unease then but I took the horses from him and stabled them as he would have had me do. He then sat in his father's favourite chair by the fire until the sun set. He offered no explanation as to the absence of his wife to me or any of the servants even though they glanced askew at his odd mood. He was sombre and thoughtful throughout the remainder of the day and ate little of the supper I bought him. Instead, he partook heavily of the wine. Finally, he motioned for me to clear the table.
Just as I was about to leave, he called out in a hoarse whisper.
"Grimaud." I paused and waited for his next order.
"I killed her …" The plates slipped from my hands at those words, shattering on the wooden floor.
"Master!" I cried out then in my confusion. "What have you done?" The words were out of my mouth before I knew it. Once, long ago, he had given me orders not to speak unless he allowed it and I had defied him. I waited for the punishment which never came.
"I hung her up from a tree…" he gave a pale shadow of a smile. There was no jesting in his tone. He bowed his head until his face was almost touching the table. He was drunk.
"I killed Anne for the lying whore she is…" he sobbed more loudly this time and smashed the empty wine bottle onto the floor. I shushed him. It would never do for the other servants to hear his words.
"Bed," I lifted his arm over my shoulder, lifted him to his feet and steered him in the direction of his bedchamber. Thankfully, he did not fight me and I had him reasonably cleaned and undressed for bed. All this while, the spectre of his dead wife swinging in the breeze haunted me. Best to bury it before someone chances across that.
I went to the stables. I grabbed a shovel and lantern. I was out in the yard before another thought hit me. Which tree? I didn't know how far or where they had ridden. Think, think! My master could have covered a fair twelve leagues on his horse and there were many copses and dales where he might have dallied with his wife. What if the others started asking where the lady of the house had gone? The lady's maid, would be back from visiting her sick grandmamma in the morning. She was a local girl, a bit simple. Her mistress had little patience for her. It was my master- Bless his heart- who had granted her leave to visit… Oops, I must not prattle on so.
Still, the others might ask. I paced the yard until the grey dawn painted the eastern sky. There was only one other thing I could do and I had to act fast before the rest of the household stirred to their morning chores… I crept back to the master's bedroom. He was still abed. Her travelling chest was there. There was some talk about the Comte going to Paris with his wife after the funeral. I lifted the lid. It was unlocked. There were several gowns folded inside the chest, the maid was probably partway through packing. I tried lifting it but it was too bulky. It dragged on the floor. The noise was enough to rouse my master.
"Grimaud, what are you doing?" he growled as he stood over me. "Is that Anne's chest?" I cowered, expecting his ire. Instead, he studied the chest thoughtfully.
"The others would ask, wouldn't they?" He took up the other end of the chest. "If anyone asks, she's in Paris. We will speak no further of this."
I nodded and have kept up the lie since. We weighted the chest with stones and sank it in a nearby pool. We were back in time for my master's breakfast. The Comtess had gone to Paris on urgent business. The household continued in its oblivious manner. She was never well-liked to start with and many probably felt nothing but relief at her absence. The rumours I feared bloomed within the following month when no news was received from the woman. The Comtess had eloped to Paris with a lover and forsaken the Comte, the poor man. The Comte has annulled the marriage with the bishop's blessing. The Comtess was set upon and killed by bandits en route to Paris and her bones are lying in a ditch somewhere. Soon, the local gossip turned to other matters and it was like she never was in his house. But she wasn't dead. Well, not yet when we sank her chest into the pool but we did not know...
Well, that is my confession, Abbe. I am an old man now and I am tired. Would I have done it all over again? Of course. If they had questioned me then, I would have willingly lied with my hand on the Bible for his sake... Could you stoke up the fire a bit when you go? It is getting so cold and dark…
Author's Notes:
When did this end up as Grimaud's deathbed confession of sorts? I write like an old man.