Authors note: This is a story which expands on some of my Whumptober 2019 stories/one-shots. Some are included as they were originally written, and some have been changed slightly to better fit the plot.
They are all in it and they all get whumped at some point or other.
I hope you enjoy it.
Prologue
The twilight cast long shadows across the streets. A light rain had made the cobbles shine bringing an almost attractive quality to the street. Almost. A couple of women their shoulders bare, breasts barely contained in tight corsets, were busy trying to beguile a couple of young men into their boudoir. The men, rich and stupid, would have a couple of good hours with the women and leave with their pockets significantly lighter.
The Spaniard shook his head, the same scene was probably playing out in his home city. Women sold themselves, the men bought what was on offer. He turned his attention away from the less than salubrious side of the great city. He was not interested in the whores and beggars he had a bigger target in mind. Nothing but the Crown itself would satisfy the Spaniards master. And he knew if he achieved his goal his own rewards would be great.
His contact, a middle-aged man of some influence, approached him cautiously. The caution was justified, the man was wary, but not scared. The Spaniard was sure the Frenchman could hold his own in a confrontation. Which was what they needed. The Frenchman was the man who would get them where they needed to be.
'Is everything ready?' asked the man as he reached the Spaniard.
The Spaniard nodded, he liked the Frenchman's directness, his no-nonsense approach.
'I should be able to gather the final details over the next couple of days. Sometimes these things change. I don't want us to commit our resources until we are sure.'
Hiding a smile, the Spaniard nodded. The resources were not from the Frenchman, they were solely from his employer. The Frenchman was their go-between and eventual mouthpiece. He was not their financier.
A muffled sound made them both look in the direction the Frenchman had come from. The Spaniard took a couple of steps forward, his hand on the hilt of his dagger.
'I wasn't followed,' said the Frenchman, a surety in his voice that the Spaniard liked.
'If you were followed but are sure you were not, Senor,' said the Spaniard, 'it either means you were, indeed, not followed, or they are very good.'
'I was not followed,' reiterated the Frenchman with a look of annoyance at the veiled accusation.
The Spaniard decided nobody was watching them. He glanced back along the road; the whores had disappeared with their prey. The street was empty apart from the two of them.
'Here are the final instructions,' said the Spaniard, handing the Frenchman a roll of parchment, tightly bound with a black ribbon, 'we will be in touch a few hours beforehand. It would be wise for you not to be there when we make our move. We do not want you to be involved, on either side.'
The Frenchman nodded his understanding, 'I can ensure I will not be around. There are several things I could do to make that happen. Our anointed leader tires of his courtiers easily. I will not need to be near him when you strike.'
'Bueno,' said the Spaniard. 'When we are done, we will meet again as equals.'
The Frenchman smiled, 'the changes will be for the best of both our countries. A bigger, united, force against the rest of Europe.'
The two men regarded each other for a few seconds, one thinking they were equals, one knowing they were not.
The Frenchman turned, his cloak brushing the Spaniard's legs as he went, his expensive shoes tapping across the wet cobbles. The Spaniard watched him go, knowing that although he was useful, they were not equal. The Spaniard wondered if the Frenchman would realise that fact, wondered if he would get the chance to realise that fact before his eventual demise.
MMMM