Very Short Chapter 11
An hour later, restored to some semblance of neatness, d'Artagnan opened the door of their suite to the coop master, who bowed as he extended the leather tube he held. "Herr Athos' response."
"Merci, we appreciate the quick return."
"Excellent flying conditions." The man bowed again and turned on his heel.
d'Artagnan closed the door with a snap, though it had less to do with temper than terror. He paced the length of the sitting room twice before willing his feet to stop before the window on the third turn. He could not, however, control the trembling that smote his fingers as he broke the wax seal on the tube and drew out the single bit of rolled parchment. He was in a foreign country, in an unfamiliar city far from home, with no one to rely on. More than that, he bore the weight of the burden for following through on the instructions he would have given anything not to have to open.
Squaring his shoulders, d'Artagnan slid a fingernail beneath the seal on the scroll and spread its length between his hands. It had opened sideways. He adjusted it, then turned back to the window for better light. The missive was written in a flowing hand, the letters neat and precise; any of the Musketeers could have told him it was in the king's own hand. d'Artagnan neither knew, nor cared, whose hand it was in; the instructions wrought pure panic.
'You are authorized by the hand of the king, to proceed to the end of negotiations so long as they end with France as beneficiary. We believe the Swiss to be reasonable; acquire as many men and arms as possible, at whatever the cost. We will make a good faith payment, the balance to be paid on mobilization.'
He did recognize the addendum scrawled beneath in the captain's hand, 'Observe all protocol excluding loss of life.'
So Tréville had correctly interpreted Athos' cryptic note, but been unable to stall. Likely the message had been delivered to him at the palace, limiting his options.
d'Artagnan slumped down in the closest chair. A month and a half ago his life had revolved around plowing and practice, both occupations solitary in nature since the passing of the uncle who had been his sword master.
A month ago he'd been charged with the murder of an ambassador, Athos had been in prison awaiting execution on the orders of a capricious king, the Musketeer garrison had been in an uproar and Porthos and Aramis had dragged him along to scour the countryside in an effort to clear their friend's name. Athos had been in front of the firing squad as they'd delivered the king's rescinded orders. The reprieve, however, had left the cardinal stewing angrily and Tréville had sent them off to collect a 'package' from Calais.
Less than a fortnight after they had returned to Paris with their 'package' - a priest who had fled to England for sanctuary - d'Artagnan had been involved in a duel that had landed him in prison, not to mention coming very close to being blown to kingdom come.
Not that his whole existence addressed a long span of time, but it had been the best month of his entire life! Until last night. Now the entirety of the mission rested on his inexperienced shoulders and those shoulders slumped despondently.
He was well aware the Musketeers considered him a little brash and a lot cheeky at times, but it would take a bit more than impudent audacity to pull off this charade. The alternative was to throw himself on the mercy of the Venner, though, and he was not ready to take that step. He would cover this afternoon as best he could and if Athos and company were not back by this evening, d'Artagnan would go back to the bear pit and follow.
On the strength of that conviction, the Gascon straightened, set his shoulders and rose, though his hand went to his chest again. Ignoring the dull throb echoing the beat of his heart, he rummaged through the escritoire for paper, penned a note to the Venner, delivered it to the page on duty and headed for the stable to set up his cover story.
TBC 11/19