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Title: A Worthy Foe
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Chicot, Bussy, random assassins
Continuity: Set about a year before the events of Chicot the Jester (ie 1577)
Summary: In the book, Saint Luc proposes to fight Chicot to relieve his boredom in his imprisonment. Bussy advises strongly against it, saying that Saint Luc must know Chicot is a 'rough swordsman'. So ... how did Bussy know that? Had he seen Chicot fight? Fought against him? *grin* Hence this fic, in which assassins attack Chicot, and Bussy gets in the middle of it.
Wordcount: 1511
Disclaimer: I think public domain by now, but it all belongs to Alexandre Dumas pere regardless, because he was a genius
"For you are bored, you said?"
"Ask Chicot. Since this morning I have a horror of him, and proposed to fight him. The monkey was angry enough to make one burst of laughter, and yet I didn't move an eyebrow. If this thing goes on I shall kill him outright to distract my mind, or I will make him kill me."
"Peste! Don't play that game; you know Chicot is a rough swordsman. You would be much more ennuye in a coffin than you are in your prison."
Chicot the Jester, Chapter 5 - Bussy and Saint Luc.
A Worthy Foe
It was a fine evening in Paris, in the autumn of the year 1577, when Comte de Bussy d'Amboise strolled through the streets on his way home from a rendezvous with a friend. The air was clear and calm, the darkness only beginning to draw in over the city, and Bussy found himself in a fine mood indeed. Fine enough for a dance, or a night in a tavern with a beautiful woman, or perhaps a fight with a worthy gentleman or two. His hand rested most naturally on the sword at his hip, and his smile was anticipatory. Paris was a good city, after all, a fine maid, and she was sure to oblige him this night.
And voila! On the heels of this thought, as if by divine providence, he heard the ring of steel and the hoarse cries of combat emanating from an alley in the shadows of the abbey de Sainte-Genevieve. More than three men by the sounds of it, and Bussy gave a word of thanks to Paris and to God, loosening his sword in its scabbard before moving with deadly caution into the darkness of the alley, eyes sharp and ready.
And what did Bussy see, dear readers? A most unfair battle, the gleam of three swords against one in the dim light of the alley, the low laughter of three assassins as they closed on their prey. Bussy, observant as always, noted the shape of a body behind the fight, as if a fifth man had already been dispatched, but he had no way to know on which side that man had fallen. Even so. Three to two, or four to one, it was a battle that grated on his nerves for its lack of honour, and he determined in that instant to aid the lone fighter, should that man be the devil himself.
In this supposition, perhaps he was not far wrong. For though Bussy did not recognise him, not so distant and in such dim light, the readers will know that the lone swordsman was Chicot, jester of king Henri de Valois, a man many had compared to the devil in his time. And on this winter evening, he was to perpetuate that comparison. For as Bussy silently drew his sword in preparation to join this uneven battle, Chicot himself spoke up, with all his usual sarcasm.
"Gentlemen!" he cried, smiling grimly. "I did not realise in what high regard you held this poor fool! Four to one, mordieu! You must believe me to be a great swordsman."
"Not at all, sir jester! But we are paid by the man, and the contractor is most willing to pay for four. Therefore four come against you, to be certain of the result. You see?"
"Oui," he answered, nodding ingenuously, and in that moment struck out against them, his sword flickering briefly over the throat of one assailant, darting to strike the arm of another, before he was forced to pull back to defend against the third. The first man fell, gurgling as the blood filled his mouth, and the other two lunged at Chicot in furious earnest, forcing him back against a wall with the ferocity of the assault. He gave the ground, but parried with calm precision, so that only one slight blow landed on his upper arm. But for all the genius of his defense, his opponents offered him no opportunity to attack. There was nowhere for Chicot to go.
Seeing this, Bussy decided he had had enough to watching. His noble blood boiling, his leapt at the backs of the assassins with a cry. "Defend yourselves, gentlemen!" He was quite furious himself, appalled at this lack of fairness, and his sword was as true and vicious as ever it had been against the Spaniards. One of them fell before him instantly, the other staggering back with a cry of pain as Chicot used this distraction to strike his shoulder, piercing full through. Bussy turned from his foe, raising his sword against this last enemy, and the assassin turned to flee, wrenching his shoulder free of Chicot's sword with a hideous cry. Chicot, sincerely furious at being attacked in such a manner, gave him one last blow across the back as he ran, and the blood ran freely over the assassin's shirt. Then he was gone, and only Bussy and Chicot were left alive in the alley.
His part in this fight at an end, Bussy immediately lowered his sword, looking around for a cloth on which to clean it, ignoring Chicot for the moment. An action he regretted an instant later when the point of the jester's sword appeared before his throat, hovering gently beneath his chin. Bussy froze.
"Pardon, sir," he said quietly. "That is hardly polite."
"Oh, indeed," Chicot answered, his head bobbing like that of a curious bird, his hand as steady as a rock. "Excessive, perhaps. But I find five men against one more excessive still, Comte de Bussy." He stepped forward, so that each man could see the face of the other clearly. Bussy frowned.
"I am not one of those men," he argued. "Did I not aid you, sir Chicot?"
"Oui, you did. Forgive me, Bussy. You see I am a cautious man, and such a fool that I do not know enemy from friend. But you have never been my friend before, so, fool that I am, I find it hard to trust you."
Bussy smiled. "It seems to me that even a fool would find a friend in the man that aided him. Therefore, since you do not, you cannot be a fool." And he held out his hand, empty, in offer. Chicot look at him for a long moment, a measuring gaze, before a smile like sunrise came over his features, and he lowered his sword to take Bussy's hand.
"Oh, I am a fool indeed. The first of fools. And I am grateful for your aid, Comte de Bussy."
"Bah! It was nothing. I dislike seeing a man so outnumbered, no matter who he is. You need not feel obliged, when I would have aided the devil as surely as I did you, M. de Chicot."
Chicot laughed at that, a rich, genuine sound, and he threw his arm companionably over Bussy's shoulder, wincing as it pulled on the wound he had taken there. At his grimace, Bussy frowned.
"Come, sir jester," he said, pointing towards a nearby tavern. "We should see to that wound, and any others you might have, before they fester."
"Oh, parbleu, you are right, sir Comte! Such gentle concern for my well-being. I do thank you." Chicot smiled wryly, a jest aimed at himself or Bussy or both, the Comte could not tell which. "Come then. Let us see to my wounds."
It was then, perhaps, as they sat in the tavern with hot water and cloths, as Chicot accepted the harsh movement of Bussy's hands over the tears in his flesh, as he laughed and joked as if they were merely attending a ball in court, that Bussy conceived the image of Chicot as someone dangerous. A clever man hiding behind the face of a fool, gay and unassuming, but deadly underneath it all, with a mind as sharp as his sword. Someone, Bussy thought, that he should not like to face in earnest, for the result would surely rest on God's kindness and nothing else.
"You are an interesting man, M. de Chicot," he commented, putting away the cloths and gently smoothing the bandage over Chicot's arm. The jester looked at him with a strange smile.
"Oh? Chicot, who is only a simple fool, M. de Bussy? Parbleu, you find interest in strange things!"
Bussy laughed. "Of course! Strange things are the most interesting, I find. And you are strange indeed."
Chicot puffed himself up, a perfect caricature of offense. "Strange! Monsieur, how you insult your friends! I am greatly offended, sir!" And then he smiled, mercurial as the weather, a sly foolishness in the face of the world. Bussy laughed, and for a moment felt a strange affection in his breast for this man and his daring, his honour and his humour. He wished briefly that it had not been the king to earn Chicot's loyalty, for that must surely set them against each other one day.
Ah well, he thought, reaching out to shake the hand of the laughing Chicot. At least such a contest would be against the worthiest of foes. For a man of the sword, that was a gift indeed.
