Translations
pied du roi - a unit of measure, literally the length of a king's foot
Chapter Eight
d'Artagnan did not immediately answer, though the scowl that started with a twist of the lips and scrunched the dark eyebrows told their own tale.
"If the words I'm fine come out of your mouth, you may find it difficult to eat for a few days." Athos deliberately crossed his arms over his chest. "Because I will be sorely tempted to smash them back in."
"I am no worse off than you," d'Artagnan growled finally, though the concession was hard fought.
"Need I remind you that we are on a mission and you have tacitly placed yourself under my command since you chose to accompany us?" Athos studied the weary slump of the shoulders, noting the intransigence liming every line of the sprawled body. "Don't make me order you."
Another sigh and, eventually, reluctant capitulation. "Knife." d'Artagnan winced as he put two fingers to the base of his breast bone, "though based on the fact I'm still alive, it can't have punctured any vital organs."
The comte's eyes widened in alarm. "For God's sake, you idiot! I know damn well you've heard Aramis' lecture a dozen times already. I shouldn't have to be repeating it now, in the middle of a hostile situation where you could drop dead on me at any moment." Athos loomed over the youth, the bubbling cauldron that was his anger only partially controlled in the face of this new threat.
d'Artagnan came to his feet as well, though slowly and with considerable difficulty. "It's not that bad." He retreated a step, the backs of his knees folding him back down into the chair.
"We work as a unit." Athos' voice was as chilly as the breath of a breeze wafting down from the snow-covered Alps. "We depend on each other. If one is disabled and does not account for it, that individual endangers every other member of the unit."
d'Artagnan retreated as far as possible as the Musketeer's hands clamped over the chair arms and Athos leaned in so the pair of them were breathing the same air.
"We're down to two and YOU DIDN'T THINK IT WAS IMPORTANT TO TELL ME YOU'D BEEN STABBED?!" Athos hissed. He straightened and turned back toward the door of the suite.
"You can't send for the doctor."
The Musketeer stopped in his tracks, furious at this further impediment. Because their baby Musketeer was absolutely correct; he could not bring in the Swiss physician without the risk of compromising their negotiating position until they had absolutely ruled out everyone on the negotiating team as a suspect.
"I'm sorry," d'Artagnan said again, bitter regret seeping from the two sharp syllables.
Athos turned on a boot heel, his normally emotionless facade a cold, tight mask of fury. "This will be the last time you withhold any kind of information, from any of us, or your career as a Musketeer - if you make it that far - will be very short."
Gazes locked, glittering blue staring down repentant brown.
d'Artagnan surrendered without terms. "Yes, sir," he responded quietly, all traces of his usual audacity eradicated from his voice. Of his own accord, he slid carefully out of his jacket, then shirt, and rose to peel off the bandage he'd clumsily wrapped around his middle.
Athos, who had apprenticed with Aramis long enough to competently judge the severity of a wound, trod closer to inspect the jagged gash. "It needs stitches." God's chariots! The still oozing stab wound was bad enough. In addition, there was not a hand span of space above the britches hanging off the youth's lean hips that wasn't sporting wicked purple bruises.
d'Artagnan turned reluctantly when Athos twirled his finger. The Musketeer made no comment, but the breadth of back tapering to narrow hips was equally bruised.
The bloody bandage trailing on the floor was soaked in a swathe that would have stretched the width of d'Artagnan's chest.
"We'd best do this in the bedchamber." Athos collected the bandage, wadded it against the wound and placed d'Artagnan's hand over it. "Christ," he swore softly, wishing he had not taken the cough medicine. A normal dose snuffed him like a candle, he'd taken less than half the usual amount, but even that little affected his ability to think clearly.
Circumnavigating the difficult shoals of keeping the evidence to a minimum was going to be a problem. He could not use any of the provisions in the rooms - towels, sheets, blankets - but Aramis usually carried an extra blanket along with his medicinal supplies. They would have to use that. "Where did you find the bandages?"
This little contretemps had moved beyond them Major Mess into the category of Absolute Disaster. He could sew up the wound, but it had gone nearly a full day without care. Even if it was only a shallow puncture, a filthy knife might well lead to a slow, painful death.
"I hope you at least poured an entire bottle of alcohol over it." As stuffed as his nose was, the reek of cheap whiskey was what had woken him last night, the cloud of fumes enveloping both of them as d'Artagnan had shaken him fully awake. Their youthful companion had never attempted to match any of them in their drinking games, whether from clean living or no head for it, no one had ever thought to ask. He should have known immediately something was wrong.
"I did." It was the first thing d'Artagnan had done when he'd crawled painfully back to consciousness in the dim light of the deserted tavern and realized he was losing blood at a painfully rapid rate. He'd stripped off his jacket and shirt, grabbed a handful of rags and a bottle off the shelf behind the bar and poured the entire contents over the wound, then soaked the rags in another bottle and used them to try to stop the bleeding. That had not been particularly successful, but it had gotten him back to the Rathaus.
Athos turned his racketing thoughts back to the immediate need. The wound was merely seeping now, but based on experience, messing about with it would start it bleeding profusely again. "Where did you get the bandages?" he repeated, making a monumental effort to speak quietly when what he really wanted was to yell until the entire Rathaus was in an uproar, his Musketeers were produced, and a doctor had seen to their puppy. For a moment, he thought his head might explode if he did not.
"Stillroom," d'Artagnan muttered, swaying a bit. Confession had wilted his starched spine. He clamped his free hand over the arm of the chair to steady himself.
"Stillroom," Athos echoed blankly.
"Stillroom," d'Artagnan repeated, blinking in an attempt to steady the slow and stately rotation of the room around him. "You asked me where I found these." His fingers twitched over the blood-soaked material pressed to his chest. "They toured us by it when we first got here. I didn't take enough to be missed if that's what you're worrying about." He'd detoured by it, hoping to find it empty in the middle of the night. Then doctored himself as best he could, rinsed the still sticky blood from his shirt, and taken the back stairs up to their wing of the government house. He changed quickly before waking Athos.
Athos had so many things to be worried about, missing bandaging failed to even register. "Stillroom," he repeated yet again, knowing he sounded like those infernal parrots Aramis was so fond of. "Find a place to sit until I get back. Avoid dripping on anything."
He had a vague recollection of the stillroom though he hadn't been paying much attention on their initial tour; still, he was fairly certain he could find it again without drawing too much attention.
He collected his hat from the sideboard and slipped out of the room. He'd long ago perfected the ability to disappear beneath that hat so completely that others rarely noticed his comings and goings. The skill had come in handy during the years he'd traveled the continent landing wherever a spare bed could be had. Especially as those beds had often been in the palaces and country homes of various foreign dignitaries with all the political and social intrigue such places engendered.
He employed it now, as skillfully as if a magician had conjured an invisibility spell. And was already contemplating how and where to get rid of the contraband, just in case it was someone on the Swiss negotiating team driving the unfolding events, as he returned to their suite. He could not fathom why, though, since the benefit would be all to the Swiss in monetary terms. And while the bulk of the payment would go to the city coffers, each man on the team stood to make a tidy profit off the transaction, as they would each be cut in on a percentage of the deal.
The French were not planning, nor even expecting to go to war with Spain, this was a contingency plan only, the wheels purposefully set in motion as a precaution. If the king agreed to this contract, Louis would be investing quite a sum of money against the possibility that his Spanish brother-in-law might violate the sacrosanct rules of political marriages. Though on the other hand, the great political alliances brought about by marrying off children before they were even contemplating coitus were rarely cemented in bedrock.
Athos took a moment to be grateful, as he entered the suite, that he did not have the ultimate responsibility for making the decision on whether or not to spend the king's money. It was, however, ultimately his responsibility to get his team out of Berne and back to Paris. Preferably with everybody whole in body and mind.
He blinked in surprise as he crossed the threshold into the room of the missing Musketeers. "Why here?"
d'Artagnan had dug out Aramis' extra blanket, collected the hair-curling whiskey from the sideboard in the parlor, set out all the necessary items for minor surgery, and laid himself out on Aramis' bed like a pagan sacrifice. A further act of contrition, since the youth was inclined to stay as far away as possible during any surgical procedures.
"Everything was in here already."
"That makes some sense." Athos dumped his purloined supplies on the floor beside the bed, uncorked the whiskey with his teeth and knocked back several gulps straight out of the bottle. A little Dutch courage, as the English would say. He was not nearly as fond of sewing up people as their medic tended to be.
Too late he remembered Aramis' warning not to mix the cough medicine with other alcohol. No matter, he could drink circles around Aramis and Porthos together and still walk home most nights. Surely this could do no more harm than an all-nighter. Though he did not have the night to sleep it off. He would have to be up and out again as soon as the city quieted.
"I should have brought the magic elixir Aramis uses for pain." Athos, his gaze unfocused, touched each of the laid out instruments, trying not to hold his breath.
d'Artagnan, as if reading the Musketeer's thoughts, shook his head. "No, we have to be out again trying to pick up the trail as soon as it's dark."
"You're not going anywhere tonight."
"You're not going out alone," d'Artagnan countered, borrowing the same flat implacability with which Athos had infused his tone of voice.
Athos closed his eyes on a sigh. "I have no doubt someday you will have the opportunity to order us all around; that day is not today, d'Artagnan." It was his own small atonement for his earlier harsh words - though he had meant every one of them, just as he meant these now. Porthos had been right back in that stable on the way to Calais, there was untapped potential in the youth from Gascony, very likely he would one day be ordering the rest of them around. But Athos knew the cost of disclosure as well; he had learned the hard way that withholding put everyone in jeopardy. "Nor are you required to suffer as penance."
"No."
"You could at least take a swig of this." Athos held up the hair-curling bottle.
"It would take more than a swig or even two to make enough difference to make it worthwhile. Just get it over with, please." The finality in the weary voice closed the subject of medicating and closed down that avenue of reprieve.
Athos pulled over the chair hosting the implements, added the neat roll of bandaging he'd found in the stillroom and a small tin of powder he'd recognized as something Aramis used whenever he could get his hands on it. On the floor beside the chair, d'Artagnan had placed a half-filled basin of water.
A stub of candle, as well as flint and steel had been set off to the side of the chair seat. Athos struck a spark, lit the candle and ran the needle through it. Aramis called it scalding, one of the strange things he'd learned from the writings of Hildegard von Bingen, an abbess of antiquity, though not quite as antiquated as some of the medical knowledge the healer had gleaned from the writings of the ancient Greeks.
And since Aramis did it religiously, his acolytes were duty bound to follow his example. Athos sucked burnt fingers, as he did not have Aramis' dexterity with either needle or flame. He soaked a cloth in the medicinal alcohol, cleaned his hands, then rinsed them in the basin and threaded the needle.
d'Artagnan watched the proceedings without comment, clamping his teeth together to swallow the hiss the first splash of alcohol startled out of him.
The wound appeared to be a shallow, glancing cut, only rib deep, as though the wielder had sliced to cut rather than driven to puncture. Painful, but not incapacitating, and thankfully without the telltale creeping redness and heat of infection. Still the youth had grit and determination in spades. He had quartered the city last night with equal if not fiercer intensity, without a single complaint.
Athos, without a single glance at his patient, began the dreadful process of puncturing flesh in order to pull the jagged edges together. He was better doing this on himself, and better by far having it done on himself, than doing it on someone else. Which meant he was willing to give away a little piece of his soul if only it would provide a distraction.
"Did the news of the siege of La Rochelle make it to Lupiac?" the Musketeer asked through gritted teeth. Each poke of the needle caused his stomach to flip flop uncomfortably.
"Was there a corner of France it did not reach?" d'Artagnan asked rhetorically.
"I received my lieutenancy at La Rochelle, though it was neither earned nor warranted."
"If you expect me to believe that bit of calumny, you've got the wrong Gascon. I'm not that naive."
"That is unfortunate, because it's God's truth. There was a shell of a tower that had not been completely demolished by artillery fire in the middle of what both sides deemed no man's land." He had two stitches set and at least a pied du roi - a king's foot - still to go; though perhaps that perception was a bit distorted by the consumed alcohol. "During one of my drunken ramblings, I apparently suggested that the Inseparables picnic in that tower. Porthos must have been drunk as a lord, too, because he started taking bets that we could hold it for an hour. Once the betting commenced, we were committed."
Athos rinsed his hands, swiping them quickly on a towel he'd smuggled out of the stillroom. Not only was the wound bleeding again from his prodding and poking, he was adding new blood to the mix every time he stabbed the needle into the youth. If he'd wanted to be a surgeon he would have applied to the Sorbonne rather than coming to the Musketeers.
Aramis' continual opining that God did not require expiation was certainly not true in Athos' case. He had come to the conclusion this was God's fiendish punishment, not only for his multitude of sins, but his unbelief as well. He always seemed to be sewing someone up after one of his particularly stupid choices.
He'd killed five men and attempted to eliminate the evidence. Though the chatter this morning, before the commencement of the bargaining again, had been quite interesting. Herr Joos had been relating news of the fire to his underlings, and as Athos had suspected might be the case, the good Venner had been a touch pleased, going so far as to comment in a jolly tone that perhaps they should set fire to the entire section. It would not only flush out the criminal element that plied their trade in the derelict alleys and lanes, it would create more building space inside the city. Nothing had been relayed regarding signs of the fight in the courtyard. Which had not surprised Athos either, as he'd been painstakingly thorough about erasing all evidence of the altercation. Nor had bodies been mentioned.
Athos chose not to share that bit of news with d'Artagnan, but God was extracting his vengeance. Nor did the comte voice the stern order to his stomach to behave. H had three more stitches set and it was time to wipe his hands again. Two more, he thought, might do the job, three at the most.
"We held the tower for the hour and then some, with a little subterfuge, and watched most of an enemy regiment dash itself to death against the walls at the base. The ridiculous tale made it to the king's ears and he personally came to camp and bestowed the new rank. Aramis and Porthos thought it was hysterical. Tréville, I suspect, wanted to hang me for insubordination, though he's closer than I am with his thoughts, so I never did hear them. But on the retreat, being the laggard that I am, I caught a saber slash on the back of my right shoulder."
One more stitch to go.
"Naturally, I wasn't going to tell anyone of my stupidity." Athos had to wipe his hands yet again. And clear the incision site as well with another splash of whiskey. "Two days later I was running a fever, the wound had become infected and I was having trouble using that hand. I can - when necessary - wield a sword with my left hand. However, it's a tad more difficult when you're facing several enemies in hand to hand combat. Porthos and I were back to back; Aramis was two steps away with his back to both of us, so we were protecting his back as well. Porthos had his hands full with the three he was holding off, Aramis had two more and I had just dispatched two of my own and was about to finish a third when the fingers of my right hand quit working. My rapier slid out of my grasp like it had been greased. I don't know if he heard me or felt something, but Porthos flung himself around and hustled my last harrier off this mortal coil, though it nearly cost him his life."
Done - thank God.
Athos sat back on his heels and picked up the towel again, using a corner to wipe away the cold sweat at his temples. Done he might be, but he still had a point to make. "One of the carrion opposing him took the opportunity to run him through from behind. Straight through his thigh. It caught a major blood carrier. Aramis got us out of there and off the field, because I was worthless and Porthos had both hands clamped around his leg lest he bleed out on the battlefield. Aramis saved both our lives that day. After he sewed up Porthos, he dragged me off to the edge of the camp and delivered an impressive castigation, then ordered me back to the medical tent and let someone else clean and sew up my shoulder wound."
The Musketeer soaked a clean towel with the rest of the bottle of whiskey he'd taken from the sitting room side board and cleaned the wound again, praying his efforts had not been for naught.
"I'm not stupid," d'Artagnan said through clenched teeth, "I got the message the first time."
"Good." It never hurt to cement a lesson with real life experience though; the kid was smart, he might actually learn from someone else's mistakes without having to make them all over again on his own.
"Did it really happen?"
Athos raised an eyebrow, though a hint of a smile twitched his lips. "If you doubt me, ask Porthos or Aramis." He shoved to standing and took the basin of wine-colored water to the window, checking the courtyard before making sure to pour it down the wall where the blood would disappear among the rust stains on the stone.
"Can you sit in one of the chairs in the other room? They're likely to bring dinner shortly." He was already busy bundling up the soiled towels secreting them away in the back of the wardrobe until they could find a place to toss them in the river.
Athos inspected d'Artagnan's shirt for blood stains, since the first bandage had been soaked through, and helped him into it when it appeared clean still. Belatedly, it occurred to him that his diatribe the night before had very likely fueled the youth's reluctance to tell him about the injury. Here was yet another guilty stain on his ink blotter. He did not want to think about how d'Artagnan had managed this long without aid.
He had not done well by his brothers this trip.
It was obvious with the first step, d'Artagnan was reeling. He needed to be in bed resting, not forced to sit up in a chair to keep up appearances. "Never mind." Athos changed his mind mid-step and turned them both back toward the bed before they'd even made it out of the room. "I'll tell them you've come down with food poisoning, too."
"I can ... do this," d'Artagnan panted, turning to shuffle a pied du roi closer to the door.
"I don't doubt that you can, but it's not necessary." Athos, appalled by the little amount of force required to turn his companion back around again, offered a salve he knew would ease d'Artagnan's guilty conscience. "Under the circumstances, I'm ordering you to back to bed." The Gascon was stubborn to a fault, a trait they shared in common. He would not, of his own accord, desist in the attempt to make it to the sitting room.
d'Artagnan said nothing, but his compliance was readily discernible in the immediate release of tension between the taut shoulder blades and an unconscious easing of the tightly clenched fists.
A knock at the sitting room door proved the wisdom of the decision. Athos left the youth lowering himself back down on the bed, right arm tucked tightly into his side as he used the other to balance the descent. His wrist gave out though and he dropped the last little bit jarringly enough to produce a bitten off curse.
A waiter, poised to knock again, stood beside a cart loaded with trays. Athos opened the door far enough to allow the cart to be wheeled into the room, exchanged pleasantries about the weather and accepted further condolences on the state of his still under-the-weather friends. d'Artagnan supplied an artful groan - or more likely, groaned involuntarily - drawing the servant's gaze to the partially open door. The man looked back to Athos with a grimace.
"Illness always seems worse in the evening," the Musketeer said with a shrug. "We're hoping for a rally soon."
The attendant informed Athos that the cart would be collected later and that if he returned it to the hallway, they would not have to disturb the messieurs again. The man backed away bowing as he wished Herr Athos a very good evening and a restful night's sleep.
Athos closed the door firmly, waited for the footfalls to die away and opened it again, just a crack. The corridor was empty. He opened the door wider, stuck his head out, waited a few moments more, then whistled softly.
Leaving the door open, he stepped back over to the cart, lifted the lid of a plate and inspected the contents. The savory scent of roasted meet wafted up to his nose and behind him, the sitting room door shifted open a bit further as a ginger head craned around the edge, overtop of which a much larger black head appeared, both noses working the air.
"Come in mademoiselle, monsieur." Athos opened the door fully, wafting a chicken leg before their noses to entice the pair into the suite.
A moment more and the cat slid sinuously around the door, followed immediately by the dog, both happily accepting the invitation to spend an evening in the guest suite. He should have asked d'Artagnan their names; the trio had been instant friends, the dog acting like d'Artagnan was a long lost playmate, the cat running to greet him every time they crossed through the Rathaus lobby.
Athos left them happily eating off the plates he put down near the door, well back from the carpet, and went to check on d'Artagnan. He'd been so preoccupied with thoughts of having to stitch up the youth, he had not noticed d'Artagnan had removed no other clothing apart from his shirt. He lay half on and half off the bed, one booted foot still on the floor, a hand resting over the bandaged cut as if he'd been pressing on it, though the fingers were lax now.
The youngster did not so much as stir as Athos worked the boots off, rearranged both legs on the bed and pulled up the covers, loosely tucking them around their worn out puppy.
Returning to the sitting room, he collected a plate of food and took the chair opposite the one in which the cat sat daintily licking her paw before scrubbing it over whiskers and chin. The dog, having sloped off to roast himself before the fire, was occasionally licking his chops as though dinner had been worthy to the last possible morsel of clinging taste. They were company at least, and kept the atmosphere from becoming maudlin as Athos forced down food he had no desire to consume and contemplated his next move. The cat finished with her after-dinner ablutions, hopped down and trotted over, tail spearing up like an explanation mark behind her. A hop and a wriggle so she was draped over his thigh and she began to knead her sharp little claws on his knee, a contented purr rumbling forth that nearly matched the dog's whuffling snore.
"Well," Athos remarked softly, rubbing the cat's ears, "if it's true, mademoiselle, that animals are a discerning lot, perhaps I'm not quite the iniquitous chap I had thought." He sat for a long time, ignoring the needling pricks of those tiny claws as he let his mind wander over the events of the last day and a half. He would not have believed it possible, but there was solace of a sort in their freely offered, undemanding companionship. Yes, he had bribed them, but they had stayed even after he'd fed them. He was oddly grateful for their presence.
Athos shifted to draw the note out of an inside pocket, disturbing Mademoiselle la Chatte. Disgruntled, she rose and stretched, butted her head against his chin and hopped to the floor to wander over to Monsieur le Chien, who rolled over to toast his other side and let her curl up between his outstretched paws.
"You have the life, my friends. One another for company, servants to feed you and not a care in the world. Perhaps one of you would exchange with me? You live my life, I'll live yours? ... No? I thought not. I wouldn't change either, were I in your furry coats."
Athos opened the sheet of paper and reread the letter that had been passed to d'Artagnan. It was a lengthy diatribe against the French monarchy, harkening back more than two hundred years. The underlying theme being the loss of Swiss lives in distant lands and foreign wars. French kings and their arrogance came up repetitively. All the way from the house of Valois, and the beginning of the century long war for control of the French throne, when the Swiss Confederacy began supplying troops to Phillip the VI in 1337, to Frances the First employment of a hundred and twenty thousand Swiss mercenaries, through the following Valois- Orléans and the Valois- Angoulême branches to the Bourbon line beginning with Henry of Narvarre and his personal Swiss guard. Each king in succession castigated for taking sons of the Swiss Confederacy. Louis, according to the author, was equally without heart, demanding further Swiss lives by right of his divine rule.
Athos leaned his head against the back of the chair, staring up the gilded, sky-blue ceiling. The summation, as d'Artagnan had conveyed so succinctly, was a demand for cessation of negotiations. If Herr Athos and Herr d'Artagnan would leave Berne, their companions would be released to follow.
Two particular thoughts kept circling in Athos' mind. First, the letter had not been delivered until the Swiss had made an offer, though Aramis and Porthos had disappeared the night before the offer had been made, suggesting either someone on the council, or someone privy to the council's thoughts. Clearly, the Swiss decision had not been made this morning, but he'd detected not a single eye blink that might have betrayed a conspirator and Athos had been paying particular attention.
He sighed and rubbed his forehead. Over by the fire, Mademoiselle la Chatte lifted and turned her head, narrowing her eyes as she stared at him, before breaking eye contact to stretch and drape herself over the dog's paws, so she rested her chin on his muzzle. The dog didn't even open his eyes.
The second thing bothering Athos was the almost pleading tone of the demand to cease negotiations, and the implied, but not quite spelled out, threat in the last line of the letter - Tell no one of this, make your adieus and leave now, before decisions become regrets and further lives are lost.
What the author of the letter failed to take into account was that the economy of the Swiss Confederacy still largely depended on trading their sons for financial stability and personal wealth among the nobility. France was probably the largest employer of Swiss mercenaries, but they were not the only European country to take advantage of the Confederacy's human trafficking.
The old man in the fog marched through Athos' thoughts. "...don't ye be takin' all our sons off to war. We be a needin' 'em here, ya know, to raise up more'n we got." And Madam Joos' loss; three sons dead on foreign soil. The wonder was the Swiss were not a Confederacy in perpetual mourning.
He went over the morning's meeting again in his mind, attempting to picture each face, each pair of eyes that had watched him from across the table. And finally gave up. Either someone at that table had stage-worthy talent, or none were guilty. The negotiations were not being held in secret, though in general he assumed that the progress was not reported daily in the town square. And yet, words exchanged over dinner or even in the privacy of a bed chamber where a valet or maid overheard ... suffice it to say the list of suspects could be endless.
He rose, barred the sitting room door, leaving the cart and covered dishes inside the room in case d'Artagnan woke feeling hungry in the night, cracked the corridor door in Aramis' and Porthos' room should his furry companions decide to exit before he was ready to leave again, and fell into Porthos' bed exhausted.
He checked his internal clock against the late evening sun still slanting through the window, calculated he had three or four hours before he could even contemplate returning to the streets, and closed his eyes.
He was asleep before he could form another thought.
TBC 8/10