Chapter Twenty Eight
The day before:
Paul Masonne fastened the workman's rough brown coat around his waist with a length of string, before pulling the hood over his red hair. He had watched the scaffolding being dismantled from around the Temple de l'Oratoire. The workman he had taken the coat from would need it no longer.
A few hours later, as Athos and Jacques Luc were enjoying Madame Lamont's hospitality, back in Paris a harassed store-keeper was undertaking the unloading of the building equipment that had been steadily removed from the Temple over the last few weeks, culminating in the removal of the scaffolding.
There was much building work being undertaken in Paris and they had been busy for months, with wagons coming and going to and from the warehouse where the store-keeper, Francois Tulier, was working in the heat over his inventory. He was tired and bad tempered. Wagons full of equipment; ladders, pulleys, ropes, buckets and the like rolled in every day. There were sacks of unused sand for cement, empty barrels, a range of woodworking and building tools and clothing – workmen's aprons and coats, strapping for hands and faces to protect from damage and dust. Dust sheets themselves; the inventory lists were endless.
Tulier, was store keeper for the warehouse belonging to one of the merchants in charge of the building works on the Temple. There were many such merchants who all had a hand in the renovations and new developments. Now, Tulier was leafing through a wad of dockets and checking his returns.
"All accounted for?" he shouted across at his apprentices who had been tasked with accounting for the tools as each category was ticked off. The master craftsmen had their own tools that they kept with them, but the labourers were supplied with what they needed. The were carefully catalogued and these men were charged for any losses. Other warehouse workers, older and stronger than the apprentice boys, had the task of unloading the timber used for the scaffolding. Tulier's boys ran around the warehouse as he shouted. Two of the lads stacking the tools strode between the rows ranged on the warehouse floor.
"Aye! All present!" they shouted, as Tulier ran a gnarled finger down his list without looking up.
Last were the ropes, coiled into huge rolls, and the pulleys.
"He will never know," Bernard whispered to Henri as they reached the end of their row, where only half the amount of pulleys lay on the floor.
Young Henri's eyes went wide;
"He will beat us!" he hissed, ducking his head, as Tulier's eyes ranged around the warehouse.
"We did not lose them!" Bernard said. "But we will be the fools he blames if he finds out. Keep your mouth shut! See, he's moving on."
Tulier was indeed wearily moving away, setting his list aside and flipping open a new one.
"If he finds out, he will think they have been stolen from the warehouse," Bertrand said. "We'll be alright."
Across the warehouse, Tulier bellowed and the two boys ran ahead to his side, ready to call out on the next load of equipment from the store-keeper's next docket.
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The Present:
Athos looked quickly around him.
The landlord of "The Fallen Oak" had left the oil lamp when he had shown he and Foubier to their attic room. There were also several candles around the room, some standing on the low beams that stretched across the walls. Two or three stood on the floor on pewter plates. It was a long room, though not wide and candlelight was needed to ensure safe manoeuvrer around the room. At present, there were only two candles and the oil lamp lit.
Athos quickly used one of the candles to light the others, before snuffing out the oil lamp. The last thing they needed in the attic was an oil-fuelled fire. Pinpricks of dull light fell through the damaged roof tiles, but did not afford much illumination. There was no time to put on his boots. The floor was rough, so slipping wasn't an issue. He opened the window, their only escape route, but it was too high should they need to jump.
Foubier shifted a table and chair, to give them more space.
All this was done as quickly and quietly as possible, as they had no doubt they were about to engage with at least two of the pack that had been trailing them.
Athos looked up and nodded at Foubier. Both stood with their swords levelled at the door and took a breath.
"Fight well," Athos whispered. "It will be impossible to take prisoners on to Paris," he added, his message clear.
Foubier nodded and with that, the door was kicked in.
They both took a step back and dropped into a fighting stance as two men crashed through the door.
The men were equal in size and powerfully build. Both held swords, one right handed, the other left.
In sync, they moved forward with a yell, raising their weapons above their heads. They were met with equal force by Athos and Foubier, who split apart, each driving their opponent to opposite ends of the attic.
Below, Athos could hear voices. No doubt they would wake the household before this was finished but he had no wish to be diverted from the fight in order to engage with any interested patrons, nor the landlord.
As such he turned his opponent so that he could back up to the doorway, where he shoved the man back with a lunge and without taking his eyes from him, he yelled through the doorway:
"If you value your lives, stay back! Close and bar your doors!"
His order was quickly obeyed, the sound of keys in locks echoing up the stairs.
Holding onto the door frame with one hand, he kicked out as the man came at him again, making contact with the man's thigh, though barely missing the tip of his blade against his cheek. Without his boots though, it did not have the desired effect of collapsing his opponent's leg and the man came back fighting. They crossed swords in a screech of steel, Athos now working him toward the corner of the room, away from Foubier.
Foubier himself was having a similar experience, though his opponent was larger and heavier. He managed to land a punch on the man's jaw, which sent him spinning away, allowing Foubier to bring his blade up toward his throat. The man came back fast and low though, and landed a punch in the Privateer's stomach, which made him double over. Before the man could continue through with his sword however, Foubier's hand had clasped the empty wine bottle on the nearby table and he brought it down hard on the man's head. Glass shattered and rained down on the floor, and Foubier, also without his boots, had to leap aside and away to avoid damage to his feet.
He looked across at Athos, who was fighting with a finesse he wished he could stand and watch, but it would be the death of him, and so he leapt up onto the bed and down on the other side, the bed now between him and his now-recovered assailant. The man slashed across the bed at him, missing him, but catching the oil lamp, which toppled over and fell heavily onto the floor. Foubier kicked it aside and backed away as the man followed him over the bed and down onto the floor in front of him once more, his face set in an angry mask, eyes black in the gloom.
The oil lamp rolled under the bed and a trail of oil started to spill from it, beginning to slowly track across the floor boards on a downward slope.
Ahead, the open window framed the black sky. The clash of steel echoed starkly around the room.
Foubier's chest was heaving now, and still keeping one eye on the broken glass on the floor, he moved his fight to the opposite side of the room.
Athos was now near the open doorway once more and Foubier realised his intent was to push the man out of the room toward the stairs. The man he was fighting was wiry and fast. Though his swordplay was not a match for the Musketeer, the confined space was having an effect on Athos's ability to land a fatal blow. The beams in the ceiling meant their blades had to be kept at shoulder height, so that the force behind them was limited. A sideways blade swipe sent one of the candles from its purchase on a beam onto the floor, where it lay on its side, its flame flickering against the floorboards, the pewter plate spinning away.
Athos had now lined the man up with his back to the doorway and he now pushed forward. As the man stumbled backward over the threshold, Athos, incredibly, abandoned his sword and grabbed a chair, holding it out in front of him, so that there was space between them. With a lunge the feet of the chair hit the man in the chest and stomach, and Athos held it there momentarily, before pushing forward.
The man regained his wits and attempted to swipe his blade at Athos, but the framework of the chair did not allow it. Instead, he dropped his sword and grabbed hold of the chair, aware now of Athos's intention as he balanced on the narrow landing with his back to the stairs, the chair pressed to his chest. He and Athos locked eyes for a long moment, before Athos deliberately held the chair hard against the man's chest and then suddenly, he let go, holding his hands up and watching as the man's eyes went wide in recognition as he tottered, the chair dropping at his feet. He flailed his arms wildly before falling backward. Grabbing hold of the banister, it broke away and with a scream he crashed backward down the stairs. The crack of his neck was audible over the rumble of his body hitting the wooden stairs.
"Athos!" he heard Foubier shout, as he turned and ran back into the attic room.
"Fine!" he yelled back, as he bent to retrieve his sword.
Foubier was struggling with his damaged shoulder but holding his own. With a swing, his sword though, hit a beam and became embedded. He was now wide open as he struggled to release it.
The thin trail of oil continued to track across the floor from beneath the bed. Ahead, the candle that had been overturned lay on its side, still alight in the direct path of the oil that was now spreading across the width of the room.
Seeing Foubier in trouble, Athos charged and struck as the man turned to face him, but he was wearing a thick leather jerkin and escaped serious injury. The man though, managed to grab a fistful of hair at the back of Athos's head and pulled him back. His head collided solidly with a low beam and black, inky spots started to move across Athos's vision as he staggered. The man kicked his knees out from under him and he crashed down onto the floorboards onto his hands and knees, his sword skittering away.
Seeing this, Foubier stopped trying to release his sword from its impalement and came barging at the man, ignoring his shoulder. Space was confined and the man, taller and broader than Foubier, pushed back and backed him toward the open window.
Over the man's shoulder, Foubier could see Athos, swaying on his hands and knees, and to his horror, the trail of oil moving slowly closer to the candle flame. He was then fighting for his life, now pressed bodily against his large assailant, who was levering him against the open window and the twenty foot drop beyond. His upper body was pushed into the cold night air through the window, his feet failing to find purchase.
To be continued …
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A/N: My apologies for the cliffhanger, made worse, unavoidably, by my not being able to post the outcome for another week. Sorry! Bad timing, I know. Hold your breaths, dear readers!