Chapter Seven
The note was delivered to d'Artagnan late in the afternoon. He was a bit disoriented and it took a moment to realize the servant who had brushed by him had deposited a small, folded piece of paper in his hand. He palmed it as discreetly as possible, but had to close his eyes as dizziness rocked him head to toe. He might get away with passing out, since Athos had informed the contingent when they'd inquired after the missing Musketeers, that Aramis and Porthos had eaten something that didn't agree with them. He could blame it on the same ailment.
Athos was going to murder him anyway, for losing the other two Musketeers, so there was really nothing to gain by trying to stay on his feet. Sadly, youthful pride had no tolerance for fainting, even as a distraction. He murmured to a nearby servant that he was going to use the facilities, tilted a head toward the exit for Athos' benefit, and left the room hoping the careful placement of his boots would indicate anything other than the fact that his equilibrium was questionable.
"... fity thousand francs, gentlemen?" Athos watched d'Artagnan leave. "King Louis is not asking for troops at this time," he returned his attention to the table of city officials, "only the promise of aid should it come to war between France and Spain. As you are aware, our queen has significant ties to Spain, this makes France leery of any type of engagement involving arms with Spain, as it would be ... offputting to Her Majesty to be at war with her brother. However, if that slim chance should come to fruition, it would be in Berne's best interests to side with the French. We have, after all, maintained good relations among your confederacies for many generations."
"We have discussed it, Herr Athos, that is our final offer. We will provide the French army six regiments of self-armed soldiers, at a cost of fifty thousand francs. France would pay the soldiers according to their rank and years of service for as long as our men wish to serve. They may contract to your liege lord for a specified period of time or indefinitely, with the understanding that they are contractually obligated during their period of service, and subject to both French and Swiss disciplinary action should they fail in their duties."
Athos, head swimming with fatigue, took the parchment pushed across the width of the polished table, drawing it down into his line of vision. Fortunately the contract had been drawn up in French, so he did not have to go through the ridiculous process of requesting a translator, since no one here was aware he spoke fluent German, but the lines of tiny, cramped script were hardly more than jots and tittles to his aching eyes. Sleep deprivation was not helping his cause.
His concentration - or perhaps that dragging fatigue - was such that he did not realize d'Artagnan was behind him until the youth had leaned over his shoulder with a glass of water. Athos did not want water, but he accepted it anyway, and found, to his surprise, a folded note in his hand along with the glass. With five of Berne's most powerful citizens seated across the table watching his every move. Internalizing a sigh, Athos slipped the note under the table and drew the contract to the edge.
Alas either his eyes or the note were too blurred to make out the looping, swooping handwriting. When he lifted his head, he saw only the usual patient waiting in each pair of eyes trained on him. d'Artagnan had moved back to the window.
Inspiration struck. "If I may beg your indulgence." Athos lifted the contract. "While I've been authorized to use my own judgment, the terms are beyond what I'm comfortable agreeing too. Does the city keep carrier pigeons?"
"Yes, of course."
"Could you allow us a few days to put this matter to the king directly? It is, after all, his personal coffers that will be financing this."
"Of course," Herr Venner repeated, smiling widely, "We have spent several evenings hammering out our position, you must have the courtesy of equal time to come to your own decisions. Let us adjourn for the nonce then, and I will send our fancier to your rooms say - in one hour from now, by the clock? Does that allow you time enough to summarize our position for your king?"
Athos glanced over the parchment, considering how long it would take to reproduce and add a few lines.
"When the document was drawn up, we had fair copies made. You are welcome to send that one along if you wish."
"That would certainly decrease the amount of time needed to pen a note to go with it. Yes, an hour will be fine." Athos rose, sliding the note and the contract to his left hand, and reached across the table to shake hands with each member of the Swiss negotiating team. "Thank you. Would it be acceptable if we spent the intervening time viewing the sights of your magnificent city? None of us have been to Berne and we've seen very little of it so far." He needed an excuse to be wandering the city streets by day, poking into odd corners and back alleys.
"It would be our pleasure to have someone show you around our fair city. You will forgive if I intrude, my friend, but you look weary yourself. I would once again offer the services of our Doktor for your friends, you have only to send one of the servants if you find they are still suffering when you return to your rooms."
"My thanks, but I hope to find them better when we return. I will, however, keep your generosity in mind should we have need of a doctor." Athos inclined his head, pasted a smile on his face and went to collect d'Artagnan. Whose appearance worried him a great deal.
Because they made sure to tread carefully, their boot falls rang softly on the black and white marble floor, though they still echoed around the large, square room furnished only with the lengthy table and the few chairs needed to accommodate the negotiating parties.
d'Artagnan glanced up and down the empty hallway as they exited the room. "The price of their freedom is leaving Berne without an agreement."
Athos drew out the note, read it quickly and returned it to an inside pocket this time. d'Artagnan had reduced an entire page of rhetoric to a single sentence.
"What now?"
Athos observed the youth was running a hand along the wall, apparently for balance, though for the moment, he addressed only the question. "If fortune smiles upon us, the king will turn down their less than generous offer. If Louis agrees, we will not be leaving Berne without a capitulation."
"And Porthos and Aramis."
"That goes without saying."
"Do you think someone at the table is holding them?"
"Do you?" Athos countered, glancing sideways at the youth.
d'Artagnan considered. "No, the questions this morning about Aramis and Porthos seemed genuine. No one pushed when you refused the services of their doctor. If they'd been trying to catch us out, it seems to me there would have been a more concerted effort to have someone in our quarters."
"I agree, though they would not need to manufacture excuses to be in our rooms. There are no locks," Athos pointed out.
"Yes, but entering our rooms without permission violates all the rules of diplomacy. They would not disrespect our privacy. Is it not a point of honor?"
"Despite what you were taught growing up, honor is less prevalent than your father would have had you believe. Stick to your principles, d'Artagnan, but do not expect others to adhere to them."
They were at their rooms and Athos opened the door with care, retrieving a short bit of straw he had placed strategically atop the bolt. "And be grateful when honor does manifest itself."
They had placed in a corner suite, with two bedchambers and a sitting room between. The centerpiece of the sitting room was a curio cabinet that echoed the colors of the ornately paneled and gilded ceiling painted robin's egg blue. The walls bore scenes of bucolic serenity elaborately framed by fanciful gilt wood lathed into scrolls and curlicues. Each scene marched with the next so if one stood in the center of the room and turned slowly, an entire bird's eye view of a pastoral setting was revealed. Starting at the door, the picture began with a meadow, traveling left around the room to the foot hills of a towering mountain that eventually merged with the meadow again on the back of the door.
Porthos had inspected every one of the twenty-three drawers of the curio cabinet, disappointed when he found nothing but ink and parchment, though the drawer of inks turned up colors only Athos had seen before. Aramis had immediately sat down to dash off several sonnets to various amours with the shimmering metallics.
He'd shrugged when Porthos had teased him, saying it was small thing only and cost him nothing, but would delight the women in his life no end.
Now, Athos went straight through to the bedchamber shared by the poet and the reprobate. Nothing disturbed in that chamber either, nor did he find his own marker - stamped with a jester's crown - displaced when he went to inspect the room he shared with d'Artagnan.
The youth was sprawled in one of the uncomfortable, velvet-upholstered chairs in the sitting room, staring at the ceiling, though Athos doubted he was seeing the blue sky painted above their heads.
Athos sat heavily in the matching chair on the other side of the large window looking down over the square of garden in the middle of the courtyard. He just needed a moment - or three - before he got up to write a note.
"Fifty francs." d'Artagnan's voice, edged with weariness as well, woke Athos from a light doze. "Will Richelieu agree to it?"
Athos slumped forward, planting elbows on knees and his face in his hands. "Of course; he won't be the one footing the bill." He rubbed his aching eyes and straightened, shoving his fists into the small of his back as he rose. "I don't expect the king to turn this down."
"Pray for bad weather?"
"Bad weather?" Athos echoed, leaving off his knuckle massage as he crossed the room to pull open the draw with paper, then the inks.
"Slower flying conditions."
"Good point. Pray for bad weather and that God is on our side - though why he would chose our nefarious French master over these honest Swiss folk I could not fathom."
d'Artagnan ignored the treasonous remark. "Someone here's not so honest."
"Yes, I find it very strange that the condition for release is no contract." Athos pulled out the chair in front of the desk snugged against the corridor wall. "Though from the little we've seen of the city, it does not appear Berne is in dire need of funds. But then - why not just say no and be done with it? Nothing about this makes any kind of sense." He sat, dipped a quill in the black ink he'd uncapped and after a moment began to write.
d'Artagnan picked up the discourse. "I suppose this kind of ransom rules out the casual criminal element."
"The attack you described did not come about spontaneously." The quill flew industriously across the parchment. "Furthermore, it happened only after it became apparent it was likely we would come to an agreement."
"Which suggests someone on the council."
"Or close to it. Was there sand in the cabinet?" Athos opened the desk drawer. "Never mind, it's here." He drew out a small, decorative pounce pot and shook it over his brief note. Behind him, he heard d'Artagnan's attempt to stifle an involuntary groan. Two missing, one wounded, and his own energy seriously compromised by this debilitating chest congestion.
They were in a major mess.
The left desk drawer produced the small, thin weatherproof leather tubes Aramis had used to house the sonnets for his inamoratas. Athos had seen the beautifully illuminated parchments with the curling vines and flowers decorating the capitals at the beginning of each line. They were works of art in and of themselves, never mind the original poetry their sharp shooter could dash off as though writing a market list.
A tickle at the back of his throat warned Athos of the cough. He shoved back from the desk and bent to hug his knees, wheezing with the effort to draw breath between the wrenching spasms. The lower left side of his ribcage was a constant dull ache, any deep breath sparked shooting pains darting about like swordfish in that side.
He had to resort to using the desk for leverage to get to his feet, but did so, half-staggering into the room he shared with d'Artagnan to find the tincture Aramis kept mixed up for a variety of purposes, but mostly as a pain killer. It worked well as cough medicine too. The base was brandy, an old, potent brew their medic kept back specifically for dosing the Inseparables and the only medication any of them took willingly. Aramis normally measured it out in spoonfuls.
Poured into a glass, it had the rich gleam of polished cedar and the consistency of warm honey. Athos knocked back a mouthful straight from the bottle, quieting the cough instantly. The bed beckoned with a siren's wiles, tempting him to lie down for just a moment, just long enough to slow his thumping heart and ease the rippling ache in his side.
But only the bottle escaped his implacable control. Athos returned to the salon.
He rolled up his missive, together with the contract, and eased them carefully into one of the empty tubes, lighting a candle to seal it against the weather d'Artagnan was praying for. The paper, ink and pounce were methodically stowed away in their various compartments and drawers as Athos considered the best way to confront his youthful companion.
A knock at the door distracted him, though d'Artagnan was unmindful of the reprieve.
"Guten Abend, mein Herr."
Athos returned the greeting, bending slightly at the waist in imitation of the fancier at their door. "Thank you for allowing us to make use of your coop, good sir."
"The pleasure is mine, Herr Athos. Your message should arrive at our Paris location no later than midday tomorrow."
Athos blinked. The regiment did not fly birds, nor regularly make use of the fancier's in Paris since the king had a vast network of message stations throughout France, many of them manned by Musketeers. "Midday?" he repeated, reordering his thoughts. "Please have it delivered to the Musketeer headquarters on the rue de Touron. Make certain it is placed in the hands of Captain Tréville only. Do not let your man in Paris leave it with a subordinate."
"Aye, it will be done as you say." The man bowed again, took the thin tube Athos passed over and marched off down the corridor.
"That's not enough time."
Athos could hear the scowl in the youthful voice. He closed the door and leaned his forehead against it for a moment before twisting around to lean back against the solid oak. "I sketched a quick outline of our predicament for Tréville. He'll read between the lines. But I did not realize the birds were that fast."
"He said - the latest it would get there - does that mean we could have an answer as soon as tomorrow evening?"
"I suggest you pray for a spectacular storm." Athos pushed off the door and crossed the room in several long strides, opting for the direct approach. He did not have the patience to coax or cajole. "Where are you injured?" he asked without preamble. There was a touch of command in his voice, just enough to make the youth aware of his still simmering displeasure.
TBC 7/19
Did You (Want to?) To Know: Carrier/Homing pigeons can fly between 600 and 700 miles a day. The sport of flying homing pigeons was well-established as early as 3000 years ago. They were used to proclaim the winner of the Olympics. The driving distance from Bern to Paris is 369 miles. You can do the math if you like. :-)