Let the Games Begin
Malcolm de Leon strutted about the tennis court with a racquet tucked under his arm like a riding crop. As cardinal's guards go the quiet young man wasn't that bad. Bernard didn't trust him of course but he was a fair sight easier to work with than Vicious Villefore or any of the other officers of the guard. Bernard made a strong overhand serve to the other side of the court and the man stumbled to get his racquet up before sending the cork ball back to his captain.
Bernard returned the projectile effortlessly, how he had loved teaching his sister to play Jeu de Volant. Her laugh could melt the ice of winter and smile was like sunshine of spring. He could not let the order take that away…never. De Leon hit the shuttlecōck a bit more forcefully then he anticipated and sent it careening wildly into the arcade where spectators could sit under awnings to watch. There were none, of course.
Musketeers always seemed to have more than their fair share of swooning females strutting about trying to catch the soldier's eye. So too the royal blue tunic had been a magnet for eager young boys, eyes aglow with hero worship. Bernard had been one, once upon a time, hanging about the tennis courts hoping to catch a glimpse of the legends Athos and Porthos playing at Battadore. Not so with the cardinal's men. No one cared to observe what THEY did with their free time, even if it was perfectly innocent…well, MOSTLY innocent anyway.
"Mordieu!" the Gascon expletive rang out in the arcaded hall heralding the arrival of d'Artagnan the lesser and his companion.
"We reserved the courts for this afternoon, caballeros. Doesn't the cardinal teach his lackeys to read…!" the Spaniard quipped
"I can't speak for Lieutenant de Leon here, but I read quite well…mierda del pollo." He added taking care to insult the Spaniard in his own language as proof he was more than up to the challenge.
The Spanish musketeer looked surprised but did not let himself be goaded into doing something rash.
Malcolm returned to the court beside his captain "I thought you wanted to keep thinks quiet like." He whispered smoothing the feathers on the shuttlecōck wishing those weren't the only feathers so easily ruffled.
"These little blue boys are here for a game…let's give them a game." Bernard grinned setting his racquet aside and gesturing meaningfully.
"Jeu de paumme" [the game of the palm D'Artagnan raised an eyebrow, "Two on two?" he asked.
"Unless you'd like to face me single…." Bernard smiled mockingly and added "junior."
Gascon blood runs hot and any comparison with his father was generally enough to provoke the young musketeer. "You've got yourself a match Bernard." Young d'Artagnan growled, The musketeer carelessly stripped off his tunic and hung it on the empty peg between the two red tunics and took the other guard's place on the field.
"Tenez!" Bernard exclaimed [play! and let the musketeer begin the first volley since it was his ball they were using. The guardsman knew that, for his plan, it really didn't matter which of them won the game. Strategically missed shots and clever ricochets sent the three tunics from their pegs and into a heap on the ground. From there it would be easy to accidentally leave a packet of papers behind in the rumpled folds of the musketeer's uniform.
But the sly captain couldn't be obvious, he had to put up a good game, and deep down he DID want to show off for the legend's son. Crossing swords was one thing… real tennis was another; the sport of kings. Before too long Malcolm and Ramon were hooting and hollering enthusiastically for their respective players as the ball darted back and forth with surprising speed and accuracy. Bernard loved playing for an audience. It was exhilarating; he didn't want it to end. But it must.
"Enough!" the captain called panting heavily; the bell in Saint Paul's tolled mournfully in the distance. "This has been an entertaining diversion but we need to get back to work." The captain tried to put just the right mix of condescending and genuine eagerness to be away in his voice.
Malcolm's eyes went wide at the very thought of being late, the master did not take kindly to such things and the punishments could be…intense. He did not need to be told twice. He reached over the wall and grabbed the two red uniforms tossing one to Bernard and shrugging hastily into the other.
The captain knew by the way the pieces of clothing moved that the bundle had fallen out as he had expected and would soon be in the possession of the idealistic king's men. He could only hope they would decide to act of the information found inside it.