Chapter Fourteen
Angry at being thwarted, Paul Masonne gathered a pack to track Jacques Luc Foubier, the Privateer who had taken the Musketeer beyond his reach. They were to stop them returning and warning the Musketeer Regiment.
It was a matter of dividing the men he chose for the task and sending half the pack east and the rest to the west in search of a cargo ship. It was known that Privateers favoured a three masted lugger, he had discovered. It should be easy enough to spot, he told his men. He wanted them both dead. He wanted their bodies. He wanted the Musketeer's body dropped at the gates of the Musketeer's garrison, minus his heart. He wanted the Privateer strung up in the marketplace. He wanted The Wolf's moniker pinned to their clothing. The citizens of Paris would know it was he who had brought this about.
They were then to meet back in Paris, the deed done, for he would not accept failure, he told was work to be done for the Easter week celebrations.
A few days later, he sent twelve men in total and returned to the task of putting his plan - for it was his plan now - into motion, slowly but surely.
Two priests died that night, their bodies left in the open for the people to see, strangled with their own crucifixes so that everyone was in no doubt this was a religious murder.
It served to seal his commitment to destroy the Catholic faith from within.
/
Foubier kept moving, his ship edging its way along the river as far as he dared during the night before mooring and moving off again before first light.
Athos had survived the night under Marcel's care, but now Foubier watched as a fever took hold of him.
Before long, he was up and striding from the cabin to seek Marcel once more. They worked together, buckets of water beside the berth, placing cloth after cloth on his forehead and chest. At first, Athos resisted, speaking nonsense, catching hold of their wrists and he had to be wrestled down. Gradually, he quietened and fell into a quiet state, though still bathed in perspiration. Marcel checked his needlework, which had held, but the skin around it was swollen and red.
"This isn't your fault," Marcel said, wearily, looking his Captain in the eye. "It could have been the blade that caused the fever."
Foubier remained unnaturally quiet.
Marcel looked Foubier in the eye as he passed him a cloth;
"Or the conditions you found him in," he persisted. "The ropes? The floor?"
"I dragged him from that cellar through the streets ..." Foubier said, dipping the cloth in the bucket of water and wringing it out.
"You did the right thing," Marcel interrupted, before adding, quietly but firmly, "You probably saved his life. You can't control everything."
Foubier sighed;
"Do your best for him, Marcel," he said quietly. "He is a good man."
Marcel cast a glance his way and Foubier clapped him on the shoulder amicably.
"And he has a tale to tell," Foubier added. "I am curious."
"And if he dies?"
"He won't die," Foubier replied firmly, placing the cloth on Athos's forehead. "His sense of duty won't allow it."
Marcel left after a while and returned with a pot of balm. He pulled the cork from the jar and smeared it liberally but gently over the wound, before placing a pad of linen over the black stitches. Between them they managed to bandage him.
"That's the best we can do for now," Marcel said, when they had finished.
"Thank you, Marcel," Foubier nodded.
He retreated behind his desk once more. Earlier, he had filled a cut glass decanter and now he sat back, pouring two good measures of wine into pewter mugs. He pushed one over his desk top toward Marcel, who had found purchase on a chest on the other side of the desk, his back against the wooden panelling. Nursing his mug, Foubier leant back in his chair and put his feet up on his desk, crossed at the ankles.
/
During the night, Foubier sent Marcel to his bunk, secure in the knowledge that Athos would not die.
At some point he fell asleep unaware that his guest, though quietly asleep, was lost in a disturbing memory:
Under orders and heavily disguised, he had entered the city of La Rochelle.
He had carried information back to Richelieu from an informant of Simeon that the people would starve. There was little food. Richelieu would not listen. He wanted to know their weaponry.
Athos had found nothing that would threaten Louis' regiments, save for the cannons, which were obvious, set brooding on the battlements,. On his way out, he saw someone arguing with a man up on the battlements. They were shouting at each other.
For a moment, he thought it might be Simeon by his clothing, but could not be sure. The spy was a ghost and changed his garb and appearance frequently. He was beseeching the red-haired man on the battlements, but Athos could not hear the words. The man was yelling back, waving him away.
Athos watched. As Simeon turned back, their eyes met.
Suddenly, the roar of cannon made the walls shake and Athos thought it was the Royalists, but he was suddenly grabbed as he staggered and pushed out through the gates. The cannons roared again, their fire coming from above, from the walls themselves. The Huguenots were firing on the French soldiers.
Debris rained down on him as the old walls took a battering from the power of the cannons supported by the castellations. He stumbled back to his men, further down the hill, his arms over his head to protect himself.
Save for a shadow running the length of the outer wall, he saw no more of the man who had pushed him clear.
The battle for La Rochelle was on.
/
Foubier was woken at dawn by a groan from his guest. Dropping his chair forward he jumped to his feet and moved quickly to the berth, crouching down beside it.
Athos was laid on his right side, facing him, his right arm laid loosely across his bandaged torso.
"Athos," Foubier said, quietly.
Athos groaned again and frowned. Taking a breath, he opened his eyes with some difficulty, as one was badly swollen and bruised. Seeing the man in front of him, he frowned again.
"Aramis?" he said, his voice a bare whisper.
"No, my friend, I am not he," Foubier said, placing a hand on his forehead. "I am much more handsome."
His attempt at humour was lost on Athos, who shifted onto his back and hitched a breath, closing his eyes once more. Athos had not recognised him and in view of his state, Foubier did not choose to re introduce himself.
"Be still, you have stitches," Foubier said, quietly. "Though your fever has broken."
"The King is in danger. Must warn ..." Athos managed, before losing focus, his eyes slipping past Foubier to the cabin beyond.
"The King?" Foubier murmured. "That is worrying."
"And the Cardinal," Athos breathed.
Foubier grimaced.
"Not so much," he said.
"Red haired man," Athos continued. "Danger," he managed. "Must tell the King."
"We are not in Paris, Athos," Foubier replied, placing his hand on Athos's shoulder to keep him still.
They had set sail the moment Foubier had returned with the Musketeer and had made headway since.. Later this day they would be closer to Rouen than Paris.
"Where?" Athos said, staring at Foubier in confusion.
"Not too far," Foubier replied, cautiously. "But far enough," he added. "How long do we have?" he said then, aware that Athos had gathered some intelligence during his time in the cellar and obviously needed to impart it in the right quarters.
"What day is this …?"
"Sunday," Foubier replied.
"Date," Athos said. "What date!"
"Sunday, the 3rd of April."
"Sunday," Athos replied, slightly horrified. "Easter Sunday," Athos managed.
Foubier breathed out in relief.
"Easter Sunday is eight days hence." he said.
He moved his hand and placed it gently over Athos's own.
"I must warn you though, I have a full cargo," he said. "I am bound for Le Havre."
"No!" Athos said, becoming agitated. "I must be in Paris ..."
"By Easter Sunday, yes," Foubier sighed. "Very well, though Henry will not be pleased."
Exhausted, Athos stilled and Foubier placed his hand on his forehead. Still warm.
"Rest now," he said, to the now sleeping man.
Sighing, he pushed himself upright and went in search of Henry first, Marcel second.
"But we have a full cargo!" Henry cried, when Foubier told him. "We cannot turn back to Paris. If we miss this transaction, we do not have anything else!"
"I know, Henry," Foubier replied, wearily, running a hand over his neat beard. "But I think this is more important than our cargo."
"You say that now!" Henry replied sullenly, turning away in disgust.
"There may be a way around it," Foubier replied. "We have time. We will talk about it later. In the meantime, I need to see Marcel."
He found Marcel in the galley, frying a skillet of fish.
"Is that for our guest?" he asked.
"If you wish. He has not eaten," Marcel replied. "He needs to."
"He is weak," Foubier agreed. "But he needs to return to Paris."
Marcel dropped the metal fork on to the skillet.
"Impossible!" he said. "You ask me to stitch him up and then you tell me he is to return to Paris?"
"I know," Foubier said. "I have my own reservations, believe me. We have a full cargo to offload in Le Havre and our future probably depends upon the bounty. But we have a day or two, and I would ask you to look at him. He has an important mission to complete and I for one do not want to stand in the way of the Musketeers and their sworn oath to the King."
"Then he will need medicine as well as sustenance," Marcel said, with more determination, glad they had taken fresh meat in board
They were all Royalists. There had been a period of calm in France over the last few years and they did not wish to see that change. For all his faults, Louis had kept a peace of sorts, and his First Minister seemed to have France's interests at heart in terms of keeping security tight, if not treating the people fairly on taxation.
If Athos wanted to save France, again, who was he to stand in his way?
To be continued ...
/
A/N:
We first met Captain Foubier in Chapter Fifteen of my story, "Treville's Promise." Treville hires him to get himself and his companion, Elizabeth Cromwell, to England across the English Channel. There is no need to read that story but if you would like to see how he interacts with Athos and his brothers in that chapter and the rest of the story, it is there to read with my other works. Suffice to say, after initially being very sceptical of the Privateer, Athos concluded that he was a man of honour. Foubier suggested he knew Athos was of noble birth and hinted that he was himself, but we learn no more about him in that particular story.
Below is an extract from "Treville's Promise," when Foubier is first introduced ...
He was a tall man, with thick dark hair that curled on his collar. He had hazel eyes, a straight nose and full lips. He had a beard of sorts, more a dark shadow which leant a certain fearsomeness to his looks until you notice the wrinkles around his eyes, brought about by the smile that often transformed his features. He had a ready smile of someone very confident. He owned a tavern in Boulogne and sailed a three-masted lugger, a vessel favoured by Privateers.
His voice was that of someone well-born, though tinged with a few choice words, the influence of his sea-going comrades, no doubt. He had no mariner's tattoos and treated people with courtesy. He was somewhat over-confident at times but could assume a serious air quickly, if the situation needed it. He had reminded Athos of Aramis at his most frivolous.