A/N: Apologies for the short wait between chapters. Onward.
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Chapter Twenty Nine
...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...
Just then, the man's eyes went wide, and then the weight of him, pushing Foubier further through the open space behind him. His hand flailed wildly at the window frame, trying to find purchase.
Suddenly, a hand gripped his wrist hard and he was forcibly pulled to the side and onto his knees on the floor.
Behind him, Athos pulled his sword from the man's back but the man still made a grab for Foubier.
Athos dropped his sword and bent to grab the assailant around the lower leg, and with the other hand on his back, he swiftly heaved him up. The man tried to grasp onto the window frame but Athos was in no mood for mercy and his attempt to save himself failed. With a scream, the man tipped forward and was gone. Athos managed to save himself by grabbing the window frame and forcing himself back.
Twenty foot below, broken on the ground, the thug would cause them no more problems.
Athos retrieved his sword as Foubier picked himself off the floor. The Musketeer was swaying in front of him, his sword bloody and a lump the size of a hen's egg on his forehead. Foubier reached out for Athos, steadying him. At the same time, he reached up gingerly to touch his own nose, which was also bleeding.
"That was ferocious," he gasped, pulling in air.
"Fanaticism can give a man strength," Athos said, as they both looked down at the crumpled body outside.
At that moment Foubier saw the trail of oil had almost met the candle flame. Leaping forward he kicked the candle away with his stockinged foot, careful to avoid the broken glass as he returned to Athos's side.
"I knew that was a good choice of blade," he said, as he eased the sword from Athos's grip.
"Sit," he said, guiding him onto the nearest bed.
"You took your sword master's lessons more seriously than your governess's," Athos said, as Foubier pulled out the bottle of wine he had earlier stored in his saddlebag.
"Of course!" Foubier replied. "Who could resist all that shiny steel!"
With that, the landlord plucked up the courage to come to the doorway.
"Sir," Foubier said, loftily, "What kind of establishment do you run here?"
Athos snorted but covered it with a cough and a good mouthful of wine.
Foubier had a bloody nose, and the shadow cast by the light of the candle the landlord held aloft made Athos's already bruised eye look dark once more.
Puckett gaped but then, he started to apologise.
Foubier took pity on him and help up his hand.
"These things happen Puckett," he said. "We will say no more about it. Though water and towels would not go amiss. And sawdust, to cover this oil. And perhaps a broom and shovel to sweep this broken glass away."
Puckett nodded, numbly, apparently lost for words as he surveyed the room before turning to go.
"Oh," Foubier called out, "And a bottle of your best brandy."
"There are still two unaccounted for." Foubier said, as he pulled his boots on as a precautionary measure after Puckett had gone.
"Yes. And there will be more waiting for us in Paris," Athos replied, reaching for his own boots. "The ones who went down river. They will be waiting for us."
Puckett returned a short while later, bringing with him two towels, a bottle of brandy and a girl who followed with a bowl of warm water. After they were gone, Foubier closed the door and picked up the chair and placed it firmly under the door handle. Standing back, he looked at it.
"Perhaps we should have done that when we retired for the night," he said.
"Perhaps," Athos murmured.
Foubier dipped one of the towels into the bowl and wrung it out, before passing it to Athos, who held it to the lump on his forehead. He then repeated the process with the second towel, holding it to his nose.
"Is it broken?" Athos asked frowning at him in concern.
"A glancing blow," Foubier smiled.
There was a small mirror on the wall next to the door and he walked across to retrieve it, dropping the towel on the foot of his bed.
"Looks worse than it is," he added, turning his head from side to side. He flared his nostrils tentatively and scrunched his face up before seeming satisfied that all was sound.
"Your looks are intact," Athos remarked, dropping his own towel on his bed, though he did not take Jacques Luc for a vain man, merely a flamboyant one.
"Yours too," Foubier laughed. "How is your side?"
"It probably needs rewrapping," Athos admitted, with a sigh.
Foubier went to his saddlebag and retrieved Marcel's balm from the otherwise empty bag.
"Then let us do it," he said, holding the pot aloft.
Athos eyed the brandy Puckett had placed on the table next to his bed.
"Very well," he replied, ignoring the cups and reaching out for it, pulling the cork with his teeth, before taking a swallow and holding it out.
Foubier placed the pot and the mirror on the bed and took the brandy while Athos pulled his shirt off awkwardly, weary from the fight. The bandage was clean but loose and Foubier set the bottle down after a long swallow and unwrapped it quickly.
"How is it?" Athos asked, his head down and his hair obscuring his face.
"See for yourself," Foubier replied.
Athos looked up and saw that Foubier was holding the mirror once more.
"You haven't seen it," Foubier said, softly.
He had given Athos a mirror on deck to show him his facial injuries to persuade him he needed to recuperate but Athos had shown no interest in looking at his side. Foubier had reassured him it was alright on the first day of their journey, but Athos had not pursued it at the time. He had also paid little attention when Madame Lamont removed the stitches.
"I have seen many scars," he replied, flatly. "Many worse than the wound itself."
"Raise your arm," Foubier said, firmly.
Athos looked up at him, but did so.
"How does it feel?"
"It aches," Athos replied. "And itches."
"But it is not restrictive. The scar does not impede. See for yourself." Foubier replied.
He stood back and held up the mirror.
At first, he thought Athos would not comply, and then, hardly turning his head, he glanced at the glass.
He said nothing, holding the look for a long moment. He raised his eyes once more to Foubier, who was grinning at him.
"That is … remarkable," he said softly.
The scar was thin, slightly wider at one end and still red. He could see where the stitches had been, of course, but Foubier was right, it was flat and would fade in time.
"Marcel is good at what he does," Foubier said, with a touch of pride in his voice.
"He truly is," Athos agreed.
He had not been concerned at the look of it, but was worried about whether the scar would be puckered and whether the muscles beneath would be ruined, impeding his movement as it healed.
Clearly, that was not the case.
"We have to thank Madame Lamont too," Foubier said, setting aside the mirror and applying some of Marcel's balm, before rewrapping the bandage firmly.
"She was very efficient," Athos conceded readily. "And kind." He was also touched that Foubier had said "we" and not "you."
Foubier clapped him on the shoulder.
"There are still good people in this world, Athos," he said.
Athos watched him as he replaced the mirror on the wall, smiling as he watched him step back and smooth out his moustache, and then an eyebrow. Perhaps Foubier was a little vain after all, he smiled.
"We should get some sleep," Foubier said, turning around and seeing the look of amusement on Athos's face.
"What?" he said.
"Do you wish to take the mirror with you?" Athos teased.
Foubier swung around to look at it once more.
"No, it is far too small," he said, winking at his reflection.
In the mirror, he saw Athos behind him pull his legs up and settle on the bed against his pillows, the brandy cradled in his hand.
He went over to the window, noting that Puckett had already had that body below removed.
"Puckett is efficient," he murmured, closing the window and turning to Athos.
Who was asleep, the bottle of brandy still upright in his hand.
He walked quietly across and retrieved the bottle, before pulling the blanket over his Musketeer companion, boots and all.
"Thank you for my life, my friend. I believe we are even," he whispered before carrying the bottle back to his own bed, to keep watch.
/
On the way out in the morning, Foubier pressed a small pouch into the Puckett's hands.
"For your trouble," he said.
"What was it?" Athos said as they prepared their horses to ride.
"Just a few Spanish coins we picked up in Madeira. They are very pretty."
"Gold?"
"Of course. He will be able to make good his repairs."
Athos rolled his eyes.
"Is that the last of your treasure trove?"
"Just about. I have enough for my onward passage to La Havre. And I will not be parting with my compass so we may have to think of other ways to bribe our way back to Paris, should the need arise."
"I am sure we will find something," Athos said. "Though the journey is short now."
"I can almost smell Paris!" Foubier said and nudged his rested horse to trot on.
"I am sure you can," Athos said, following. He breathed in the air of the countryside. Soon, the unsavoury aromas of the city would make themselves known and the urgency of revealing Masonne's plot would be upon them.
To be continued ...