Chapter Twelve

The Present

Dusk:

Not too far away, a skiff pulled up against the stone steps of the quayside with two men aboard, one rowing the other. The other pulled his hood over his head and gathered his cloak around him. The rower tied the boat up as the other man climbed nimbly onto the slick steps.

"It will be dark soon," the rower called after him. "Be careful."

"It will be a few hours yet and I don't intend to be long. If you tire of waiting, go to the tavern," his passenger said, indicating a small establishment a few yards along the way, candles already burning in the windows.

The rower huffed, drawing his own cloak around him. "And risk losing the boat?" he grunted. "Just complete your business and be back, we need to offload our cargo."

The other man looked around him;

"I see no Musketeers or Red Guard," he smiled. "We have a window of opportunity."

With that, he slipped away, leaving the rower wrapped in his cloak, glowering about him.

On the quay, the other man paused, looking around once more, before pulling his hood further forward. Paris was not his home, though he made it his business to know every street, every nook and cranny of the area he was standing in. As soon as this transaction was complete, he would return to Henry and they would board ship and be away.

/

Following his meeting with the Musketeers in The Pewter Pot, Simeon had remained in the tavern deep in thought, before he slipped away to the lodging house he was currently using. He needed answers of his own. The two days the Musketeers required were up now, but they would have to wait.

He had been aware of the increased Huguenot activity before the Musketeers had sought him out and he was disquieted. More than that, he was chilled to the bone. So far, he had kept the Musketeers at arms length but recent developments and their questions had raised ones of his own. His spying days were over but he maintained his skills. It was those skills and contacts that led him now from the derelict warehouse where according to the Musketeers, Athos had been taken, to an unused grain store some distance away.

It stood between two other buildings, which helped to keep it up, no doubt, but his informant had today described a procession of sorts that had passed through the alleyways on the day Athos was taken, and the grain store was the only building not presently in use and was therefore perfect for another lair.

Slamming his foot into the wooden door, it gave and partially swung open on rusted hinges. Once inside, he pulled out a small brass lamp that fitted into the palm of his hand, the wick soaked in oil. Once lit, it gave off a dim light; just enough to see by but not attract attention. Halfway down the passageway, there was a rush torch, held in an iron ring, which he lit in order to keep his bearings and see him out. There were no windows here, so he would not be detected.

He searched for half an hour through the wide open spaces on all three floors. He found nothing. Returning to the ground floor to leave, he saw a set of stairs in a small recess off the main passageway. Holding back a curse on his informer at his lack of progress, he decided to take a look.

His oil lamp helped him keep his footing as he descended, slowly and silently. Ahead was an open doorway and he found himself in a wide cellar with a vaulted ceiling. He could just make out a low chute at one end, leading up to a dilapidated pair of wide wooden doors, barred from the inside.

He was about to leave when he saw movement in the corner, near a wooden flight of stairs.

Holding his lamp a little higher, his hand went to the hilt of his blade in his belt.

"Who's there!" he demanded, taking a few steps forward.

He was met with a groan. Whoever it was shifted and sagged to one side.

More confident that he was not about to be attacked, Simeon moved quickly across the floor and dropped to one knee, holding the lamp near for a closer look.

He pulled in a breath.

It was the Musketeer, Athos, trussed tightly and apparently unconscious.

He placed the lamp on the floor nearby. Far from being elated, he was suddenly wary, looking around, before turning his attention back to the prone Musketeer.

This was not good.

As he watched,momentarily undecided about what to do, Athos shifted. Simeon moved the lamp back so that he was part in shadow, and leant closer. Athos began to speak but did not open his eyes. One was swollen shut and blue black with a bruise that stretched over his eye socket.

"Masonne. Red haired man, danger. Must inform ..."

The words struck Simeon squarely in the chest as he bent closer, grabbing Athos by the ropes that bound him and not too kindly pulling him up from his prone position;

"What is it! What do you know?" Simeon demanded.

Athos though, had nothing else to give, despite being shaken by a panicked Simeon.

Simeon let go, but his hand came away bloody and he froze. For a moment, he remained unsure as to what to do, and then, he made a decision and he pulled out his knife and raised it.

At that moment, he heard footsteps coming closer.

He looked at Athos once more, his hand tightening around his blade.

The steps came closer, stealthy, but Simeon's ears were attuned to pick up the slightest sound. Even after all these years, he was alert to everything.

No-one must find him here.

However, he hesitated and at that moment, the footsteps ceased and the shadow of a figure appeared in the corridor just beyond the doorway.

Looking around at the chute at the end of the room, Simeon shoved his knife back in his belt. Before whoever it was came into view he dropped Athos back on his side and fled toward the barred doors above the chute.

Behind him, someone was shouting his name but he did not turn back, dislodging the beam and forcing his way through the doors and into the night.

At that moment, the cloaked man came fully into the room. The open doors above the chute at the end of the room cast some light into the cellar now and he saw that someone lay next to the steps. Coming closer, he could see the apparently unconscious man laying on his side, tightly bound around his torso, his arms pinned to his side, his hair obscuring his face.

For a moment, he thought to flee himself. He did not need this aggravation. He was merely in the area to complete a transaction. But honour got the better of him, someone was in need and so he made his way cautiously across. The man though, seemed to be no threat and so he crouched beside him and pulled him up into a sitting position.

It was then that he saw, through the bruising to his face, who it was.

"Well, well," he murmured. "What have we here?"

He began to untie the ropes when he suddenly realised the man was wounded. Blood had seeped into the ropes under his arm. If he undid them fully, he may die, right there on the floor in front of him! However, he could not leave him bound like this, he could hardly breathe, so cut through the ropes. Reaching under his cloak and pulling off the striped black and white sash that was tied around his waist, he bundled it up, and pushed it under the man's arm. Seeing his discarded jacket in the corner, he pushed himself to his feet to collect it. There was an empty weapon belt there too, and he grabbed that, before returning quickly to the prone man. He managed to get the jacket onto him and half fastened it. Then the belt, tucking the man's hand into it to keep the arm clamped to his side and the sash in place. There were long trails of blood on the floor which he suspected belonged to others, but there were no bodies, thankfully.

With some effort, he pulled the man to his feet.

"Hold on, my friend," he said softly, throwing his cape over his shoulder and grasping his charge. "Hold on Athos. This may do you more harm than good."

Athos rallied slightly, but was mumbling incoherently and could not stand unaided. He had taken what looked like a sustained beating. He was too pale. His breathing too shallow, even without the bonds. The sooner they could get out, the better.

He thought of his skiff and Henry, waiting for him at the quayside and he sighed.

"Bird," Athos muttered, as he was hauled up. "Danger. Must inform … plan," but his legs buckled. The cloaked man was the taller of the two though, which he used to his advantage. He grabbed Athos's free arm and pulled it gently over his shoulder. Grasping his belt at the back with his free hand, he managed to hold him up.

"You're heavier than you look," he grumbled as he looked around for an escape route.

It was a long way back through the building, the way he had come. Looking around, he saw that the chute at the end of the room was shallow, just the depth of the street beyond to the grain store floor, but there was a narrow set of steps beside it, no doubt to aid any workers in past years. That was how the assailant got out so quickly, he realised.

And with that, he began to pull Athos, almost a dead weight now, toward the chute; their quickest way into the night.

There was a bright moon now, but it still took the cloaked man a laborious amount of time to carry and drag Athos through the back alleys to his waiting skiff and further time for him and the silent rower to ease him onto the floor of the skiff and get them back to their ship, where many hands helped them onboard.

On deck, he faced the disdainful glare of his bosun, who could remain silent no longer.

"You never could resist rescuing strays," the man growled.

"Don't look at me like that, Henry, he's a Musketeer. And on a mission, no doubt. He's an honourable man, despite his appearance. This is what you get for your unswerving allegiance to the King."

Henry cast a doubtful look over him and his charge, but the man gave him a wide smile and winked at him;

"Weigh anchor, we head away from Paris and his enemies. Take us to the inlet. We'll be safe there."

"We were safe here," Henry grumbled.

"Yes, well, things change, Henry. Get him below. My cabin. Is everyone on board?"

"Aye, Cap'n. Though not all sober."

"Marcel?"

"Sober, but asleep."

"Wake him. Tell him to bring his medical kit. He has work to do. I want a neat job. This is no ordinary Musketeer, and his friends will no doubt hold me responsible if we leave him more mutilated than we find him."

Henry sighed and shook his head. He had hoped for a few quieter days, but with Jacques Luc Foubier as Captain, there was always unpredictability*

It was a good job they all regarded him highly.

To be continued ...

/

*Some of you may remember we initially met Captain Foubier in one of my other stories, but I will leave an Author's Note about that to a later chapter.

A/N: A skiff, "esquif" in French, is a shallow, flat bottomed open boat with a sharp bow and a square stern.