Chapter 1: A Brief Interlude at Zaton’s
The evening of February 12, 1624 found
Jacques, Norbert, and the other five surviving Red Guards in Zaton’s
celebrating their recent victory over the Wolf of Soissons and toasting the
memory of their dead comrade Bellamy. Zaton’s was an eating house best known
for gambling, that stood scarcely a hundred paces from the church of St Jacques
la Boucherie. Their host, Gaston Thibeault the Captain of the Cardinal’s Red
Guards was late. But that had not stopped the others from beginning the
drinking. In fact Jacques generously offered to drink for both himself and the
captain until Gaston should arrive and then he loudly called for Lily, the
pretty barmaid at Zaton’s, to bring them another round.
Gaston was late because he was still
waiting to deliver his report to the Cardinal. One of the hazards of having the
Cardinal as an employer and patron was that Richelieu was always busy which
meant that Gaston was often waiting. Father Signoret was also missing, for
similar reasons. After being away from Paris for nearly two weeks, he had his
religious duties to attend to for the Society of Jesus.
To pass the time until his cousin Gaston
arrived, Norbert opened the letter he had received just before he set out for
Zaton’s. According to the outer wrapping, the letter had been sent from
Marseille about 2 weeks ago.
Ahoy Squire
Great Success!!! After sailing for
several days, we spotted a galley. It was filled with a bunch of filthy moors
that we promptly chained below decks. Thought it’d give them a taste of what
they’d been doing to decent god fearing men!
HAHAHA.
Now my fleet consists of two ships --
Yvette’s Revenge and the Black Eel. Soon I’ll be a commodore. YOHOHO.
It won’t be long before more bilge rats
that oppose me wind up in davy jones locker.
Landing soon to get more crew and
refurbish.
By Blackbeards damn eyes,
I am
Capt. Debouchard
The Foul Corsair
Norbert contemplated the letter
with some dissatisfaction. So I finally
get a response from the Corsair. A response, but no coin. Where is the money he
promised me? His angry musing was interrupted as one of the other Red
Guards announced that the Captain had just arrived.
Gaston entered Zaton’s and
quickly spotted the proprietor. Kazimir Zaton was a balding man with a wide
waxed mustache. He was dressed in a fancy coat decorated with elaborate gold
braid of an eastern design that hinted at his origins and his French was
heavily accented. Gaston asked where his men were seated, and Zaton directed
him towards the large dining room in back.
As he hurried to join the others he
nearly collided with a tall, man in the darkly colored but faded attire of a
nobleman. The two men paused as they stared at each other. Their looks were not
precisely friendly, but they were respectful. Each was aware of the other’s
reputation. Berault bore the sobriquet of the Black Death and Gaston had killed
more than one master of the blade in duels. “Monsieur de Berault” Gaston said
quietly.
“Monsieur
le Capitain,” de Berault said as they each nodded slightly to the other. “Were
you perhaps looking for me?
“No Monsieur, I am here to play host to
some of my men.”
“Ah, in that case…bon appetite!”
Gaston smiled slightly, but did not
reply. He moved past de Berault and found the table where the others were
sitting. His men stood as Gaston tossed the large bundle which he had been
carrying onto the tabletop. Jacques hailed him and called for a toast. “Business
first. Open it.”
Jacques tore open the brown paper
wrapping. Inside was a bundle of wolf skin cloaks with one for each of the
Guards. “I had these made from the beasts we killed. They are for you, my
wolves. A mark of your bravery and your loyalty.”
“Now that definitely calls for a toast,”
Jacques said. He handed Gaston a full mug as he proposed the first of what
would be many toasts that evening.
Gaston and the Cardinal’s Guards were
not the only soldiers in the backroom of Zaton’s. Also present were the King’s
Musketeers known as the Three Inseparables: Athos, Porthos, and Aramis. Porthos
was gambling. In the large mirror behind Porthos, Gaston could see the
Musketeeer’s opponent was Claude de Fleury, Gaston’s brother-in-law. And that
was not all that Gaston saw in the mirror. He stood and quickly walked towards
the table. I hope I can stop this in
time. While he didn’t especially like his brother-in-law, he knew Claude
was unskilled with a blade and he couldn’t very well see him killed by a
swordsman like Porthos. And if I’m not in
time? Well I still have a score to settle with Porthos and now may be the time.
As he arrived, Porthos laughed heartily
and announced, “Ha! The hand is mine. I win!”
“That’s impossible you couldn’t have had
three Queens, because…”
“You little worm, are you claiming I
cheated?” Porthos roared. “Why I’ll cut you into gobbets!”
Gaston stepped closer to Porthos and quietly
said, “You have another card up your sleeve.”
Porthos automatically replied, “No I don’t.”
Gaston intentionally raised his voice as he asked, “Are you calling me a
liar?” Suddenly the room was silent. Porthos sat at a loss for words. His
friends Athos and Aramis were suddenly alert. Behind Gaston first Norbert, then
Jacques, then all the other Guards with the exception of Clovis, who was nearly
insensible from all the toasts he had drunk, swept forward in a red wave.
Athos and Aramis stepped closer as Athos
said, “It is easy to be brave when the numbers are so much on your side.”
Without even looking behind him, Gaston
said to his men, “Six of you sit back down.” This left Norbert, Jacques, and
Gaston. Claude had gotten behind Norbert, whose great bulk completely hid the
much smaller man.
Norbert said he wanted Porthos to prove
he wasn’t cheating. Porthos is at a loss how to do that which only angers him
further and he ends up switching his quarrel from Gaston to Norbert. Athos,
recognized Gaston as the most dangerous of the three so he stepped forward and
said, “That leaves you for me, Monsieur.” Gaston nodded in acknowledgement as
Jacques and Aramis stared at each other.
“Not here,” Gaston said, “I suggest we
repair to a more suitable location not far from here.”
Zaton’s eating house stood scarcely a
hundred paces from the church of Saint Jacques la Boucherie, and half the
company went along to watch an encounter between the King’s Musketeers and the
new Cardinal’s Guards. The evening was wet, the light in the streets was
waning, and the streets themselves were dirty and slippery. There were few
passers-by in the Rue St Antoine; and the large party, which earlier in the day
must have attracted notice and a crowd, crossed unmarked, and entered without
interruption the paved triangle immediately behind the church.
As they walked towards the churchyard,
Gaston quietly spoke to his friends. “This is good. I will face Athos. He is
the most skilled of the three. Norbert, Porthos is the nearest your size and
your strength will be useful against him. And that leaves Aramis for you
Jacques. Don’t underestimate him. He has the face of a pretty cleric, but he is
said to be a very skilled duelist.”
The six men engaged. Gaston’s drove
Athos back then used his Spanish vizcaina to catch the Musketeer’s blade, but
the older man’s rallied as he used a circular, sliding move to free his trapped
blade, slashing Gaston slightly in the process. But the soldier ignored the
wound and continued to drive Athos backwards. Then Gaston’s rapier snapped, but
he used his vizcaina to disarm Athos and exchange the Musketeer’s intact sword
for his own broken blade. Now armed only with a cloak and dagger, Athos was
driven backwards to fall against the church steps. Gaston ended the duel with a
stop-thrust which badly wounded Athos, who nearly feinted from lack of blood.
Jacques fought cautiously against his
more skilled opponent. He retreated slowly as he played for time in the hope
that one of his friends would be able to come to his aid after defeating their
opponent. Jacques was wounded and he had nearly run out of room to retreat from
his foeman’s blade. With little hope that Aramis would accept, in desperation Jacques
proposed they should both agree to a draw. Aramis was not tired, but behind
Jacques he could see that the giant Norbert seemed to be holding his own against
Porthos and that Gaston had already downed Athos and was heading their way. I could take this one, but hey la Thibeault
has defeated Athos, who is the best swordsman among us and Thibeault looks
ready, even eager for more. Two to one is not appealing, thus I reason,
Jesuitically, that a truce is better than a defeat. Jacques, who was near
collapse, was happy to agree to a draw with the Musketeer.
Norbert used great sweeping blows which kept
Porthos back at first, but then one of his blows inadvertently smashed against a
church buttress shattering his sword blade. Weaponless, he picked up a huge flower
urn and tried to crush Porthos with it. He failed and the urn shattered on the
cobbles of the church square. Porthos jumped backwards to avoid the cascade of
dirt and pottery landing on his new boots. Before the Musketeer could step forward
Norbert had grabbed up a second urn which he used like a battering ram to shove
Porthos backwards. The Musketeer was not used to fighting someone even stronger
than he was and he was disconcerted with being attacked with huge urns. Therefore
he was unprepared when Norbert hefted the huge weight over his head then brained
Porthos with the enormous flowerpot. The Musketeer dropped to the pavement
amidst the rubble of the urn. Norbert looked around and saw that the duel was
over.
The Cardinal’s Guards returned to Zaton’s
to collect the Clovis, who was still passed out. As Jacques helped himself to
Clovis’ half full mug, he asked if anyone else had remembered seeing Armand de
Labrousse bitten on the upper arm by the Loup Garou.
Chapter 2: A New Assignment
The pair of guards in the lead paused as
they saw that road construction had blocked the way ahead. One rider waved to
the coach driver signaling him to make a detour down the side street to avoid
the construction. As followed the two riders into the turn, the coach’s coat of
arms winked in the torchlight from a nearby tavern door and the two footmen
gripped the back rails firmly to avoid being thrown clear. The side street was
barely wide enough for the coach to pass without scraping the buildings on
either side so the driver had already started to slow when he saw something
ahead.
Standing in the middle of the alley was
a tall, balding man. One horseman walked his horse forward and told the man to
move. Suddenly the man lifted a large spiked club from behind his back and
smashed the rider’s horse in the face which caused it to rear and fall. The rider
fell and was pinned beneath his mount. At the same moment another man with a
pair of pistols stepped out of a doorway and fired his pistols point blank at
the second rider blasting him from the saddle. The dead rider’s horse trotted
past the balding man and out of the alley.
A third man in a plain black frock coat
leapt from a balcony onto the coach seat. As he did, he swung the butcher knife
it his hand and slashed the driver’s throat while his other hand shoved the
dying man out of the seat.
The man with the spiked club walked over
to the pinned rider who asked, “Who are you?” The man grinned and said, “The
last person you’ll ever see,” as he brought his club down in a vicious arc to
bash in the fallen rider’s face. Then he stepped over put the dying horse out
of its misery.
Meanwhile the frock coated man jumped
down from the coach seat. He opened the door wide, grabbed the sill, and swung
himself into the coach startling the woman inside who screamed as she saw his
face. She frantically backed away and fumbled with the door handle behind her,
but the coach was too close to the building wall to for the door to open. “Now
there milady, we haven’t been properly introduced. It’s much too soon for me to
make you scream.” The man leered as he said this then gestured with a butcher
knife that dripped red with the blood of the driver. “Now let’s have a better
look at you.” His knife moved towards the noblewoman as she screamed again and
again.
His majesty, Louis XIII and his Queen,
Anne of Austria, sat upon a pair of informal thrones. Around them stood a group
of their closest advisors and members of their court. In front of them stood a
gentleman whose erect posture and forthright bearing showed that he spent more
time in the camp than in the court. Jean Caylar d'Anduze de Saint-Bonnet, Seigneur
de Toiras had campaigned with his majesty in both the War of the Mother and Son
and for two years after against his co-religionists in the latest round of in a
series of Religious Wars that had watered the fields of France with the blood
of her best and bravest for three generations. The Seigneur de Toiras spoke
hesitantly, not because he was hesitant, nor because he was afraid, but because
Toiras was hesitant in his speech. And at times he stuttered. But today, he felt
forced to speak.
“Your Majesties, I come on behalf of
a…noblewoman who has been…wronged. Whose person…has been assaulted and who has
been subjected to …iniqui…iniqui…to insult. I refer to my cousin…th…th…the
Comtesse de la Peray. This fair lady was attacked here within the
French..c…capital. Her coach was attacked…her person was assaulted, her
servants ki..ki…killed, and her driverless coach set loose with the Comtesse
inside to …race down the streets until it crashed into a cr…cr…crowded
marketplace further injuring the Comtesse and a number of…bystanders. Your
Majesties in the name of my cousin and in the na…name of chivalry. I…ask for
justice.”
The King turned to the Provost of Paris,
the Chevalier de Vezalay. “Monsieur le Provost, what do you have to say about
these terrible acts?”
“Your majesty, this is not the only
coach that has been robbed, though previous robberies included sedan chairs as
well as coaches and were directed against merchants and other commoners. But I
have barely 300 Archers to police a city of over 300,000 people. Majesty, I do
not make excuses but with so few men and with the responsibility for guarding
and policing all of Paris even if I knew where these villains were I should
barely have the men to apprehend them. And with their whereabouts being
unknown, I just do not have enough men to catch the perpetrators and stop the
recent rash of robberies.”
“Your Majesty,” said Cardinal Richelieu.
“The people must see that their King cares for them and your nobles must see
that the crown is strong. Perhaps if the Provost were to be given assistance
from the King’s own Household?”
Monsieur de Treville, the Captain of the
King’s Musketeers quickly said, “You Majesty, your Musketeers are brave and
loyal but they already have an important duty to guard your Majesty’s person.”
Richelieu immediately said, “Monsieur de
Treville is right as usual you Majesty. His men have many other duties and your
person must not be left unprotected. Then might I suggest that Your Majesty
allows my Red Guards to help the Provost?”
“Excellent idea Cardinal,” the King
said.
“But of course,” the Cardinal smoothly
added. “They will need Your Majesty’s authorization to arrest criminals on
behalf of the State and Your Majesty.”
“How might that be done Cardinal?”
Richelieu walked towards the large desk
at the side of the room and pulled a rolled up parchment from his sleeve. “Your
humble servant has endeavored to anticipate Your Majesty’s, wisdom and
foresight this matter.” Richelieu removed a folded letter from his sleeve,
opened it, and placed it on the desk next to a pen and ink stand. “I have a
document here, which if Your Majesty would only sign and affix his seal, would
arrange the matter to everyone’s satisfaction.”
The King stepped over to the desk and
raised the pen. Behind him, Richelieu smiled.
As Gaston walked from Cardinal
Richelieu’s busy office towards his own more modest office in Le Tour Dubois
the old tower along the gallery west of the Louvre proper, he considered the
Cardinal’s words. A new assignment, and
with it an opportunity to impress the King. And the power of arrest, which his
Eminence says ‘may be useful in the future.’ Something is in the wind for sure.
Well, Gaston, here’s where your ambition has brought you. After all, you never
thought the Cardinal hired you for your good looks or your high birth. Forward
or die. Unconsciously Gaston’s pace quickened and he began to whistle the
tune to “Vive le roi Henri.”
Gaston and his men were briefed about
the robberies by one of the Provost’s Archers, Sergeant César-Auguste sieur de
Boisrenard. Boisrenard told them that the
crime spree had started with attacks on sedan chairs which then spread to
attacks on coaches. The victims of the attacks were wealthy townsmen,
travelers, and recently, nobles. The usual tactic was for the gang to detour
the victims off the main road into side roads or allies using a variety of
tactics which included stalled carts or wagons and fake road construction. The
cart or wagon drivers and construction crews were often members of the gang and
the carts and wagons were either left behind or sent galloping away after the
robbery. Most of the victims had been killed and no witnesses had yet come
forward. Gaston, who had some experience with the underworld of Paris,
concluded that this meant that any witnesses were afraid of the gang and
therefore were afraid to speak.
Boisrenard told them that the carts and
wagons used had been stolen, usually from farmers who were in the habit of
bringing their produce to Paris to sell.
The heroes decided to ask questions at
Les Halles, Paris’ largest produce market. They talked to the farmers who typically
brought their produce there to market. They asked whether anyone was missing
carts and they learned several of those they spoke to had been the victims of the
theft of there cart or wagons. One of the victims was able to describe two of
the most memorable of the criminals. One was a tall, bald man who carried a
huge spiked club. The other was a dark haired man who carried a hatchet and
wore a long, dark coat.
Norbert remembered that he had
previously fought with a club wielding man who matched the first man’s
description. The club wielder had been one of a group of brigands who had
attacked two gentlemen, one of whom wore the tabard of a King's Musketeer. Norbert
had helped drive off the attackers and he had taken away the tall man’s spiked
club which he had kept as a trophy.
Now that they had a couple of
descriptions, Gaston chose to consult Father Signoret whose charity work kept
him in contact with the honest poor as well as members of the lower criminal
classes. The Jesuit agreed to help and suggested they should speak to Rolleau,
a cripple who knew most of what went on in the dark underbelly of Paris. They
met Rolleau at the cripple’s usual hangout, a seedy tavern known as Le Brevage
Noir or the Black Brew.
Rolleau was a legless man who moved
about on a low wheeled platform which he propelled with the wooden blocks he
held in each hand. He rolled up to their table and accepted a tall mug of the
darkly potent brew that was the tavern’s specialty. Rolleau told them that the tall
balding man with the spiked club sounded like Mainard the Nailer a thug and
enforcer who was the lieutenant for a new gang leader in Paris who went by the
name Durgo the Lucky. Durgo had dark hair, beady eyes, and an athletic build.
He usually wore a black frock coat and was said to favor close work with a
large knife or hatchet, a description that fit that of the second man that the
farmers had described. Rolleau said that Durgo was taciturn and very violent.
He preferred to kill his victims either before or after robbing them. Signoret
thanked Rolleau for the information and Gaston passed him several coins in
recompense.
This is the revised version that incorporated notes I made after the session rather than relying on my memory 2 years after play.
The version I wrote from memory is here.
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