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    One For All: Tales of the Musketeers
    One For All: Tales of the Musketeers
    One For All: Tales of the Musketeers
    Ebook114 pages1 hour

    One For All: Tales of the Musketeers

    By Pro Se Press

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    About this ebook

    Masters of the Blade... Heroes without Compare... Legends in their own Time...
    These are The Musketeers!

    One For All: Tales of the Musketeers is a swashbuckling return to tales of the group of special soldiers made famous by Alexandre Dumas and in innumerable adaptations. Yet, what of Musketeers beyond their four famous literary brethren? Adventurers, men of honor, rogues, and dedicated makers of right alike wore the crest of the Musketeer throughout the organization’s storied and rather long history. And authors David J. Fielding, Stacy Dooks, and Richard C. White now peel back the curtain to reveal the glistening blades and daring do of other Musketeers, men who truly stood the stead to protect good from evil, who fought, bled, and died proving each one of them lived the motto- One For All!

    One For All: Tales of the Musketeers. From Pro Se Productions

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherPro Se Press
    Release dateJun 18, 2016
    ISBN9781311701091
    One For All: Tales of the Musketeers
    Author

    Pro Se Press

    Based in Batesville, Arkansas, Pro Se Productions has become a leader on the cutting edge of New Pulp Fiction in a very short time.Pulp Fiction, known by many names and identified as being action/adventure, fast paced, hero versus villain, over the top characters and tight, yet extravagant plots, is experiencing a resurgence like never before. And Pro Se Press is a major part of the revival, one of the reasons that New Pulp is growing by leaps and bounds.

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      Book preview

      One For All - Pro Se Press

      Constantin and the Ghostwood By David J. Fielding

      Faubert the innkeep scratched the folds of his double chin and contemplated the nature of cracks. Though none in the village would ever describe him as a particularly astute man, Faubert was at this very moment thinking quite hard, wracking his merchant’s brain about the condition and fragility of his cups, mugs, and pottery. He held one of the inn’s many well-worn mugs up in the mid-morning light and eyed it long and carefully. As he peered at the glazed, reddish-brown piece of crockery, he turned it this way and that, examining it for even the hint of a crack.

      During the stuffy heat of day, the common room of Le Tonneu de Gambrinus was somber and still. Aside from drifting dust motes that bobbed fairy-like along scant shafts of light filtered through the dingy windows, nothing moved. From sun-up to sunset, few, if any, walked through the door looking to slake their thirst or to take a noontide meal at its wine-soaked tables. This was the daily rote existence of the simple three story wattle and daub structure, for it was most days deserted, which was the way Faubert the innkeep preferred it.

      While the bulky russet-haired proprietor loved the coin it produced, he hated the work.

      Like many of his patrons, Faubert the tavern owner would rather imbibe than suffer all the huffing and puffing that the upkeep of such an establishment required. He was tired of all the meandering about; all the dusting and sweeping, the drudgery of mopping up puddles of spilled beer, wine, puke and piss. The day in and day out of haggling and bargaining with wineries and cheese makers, quibbling with clod-headed farmers over prices of meat and vegetables, bread and potatoes for the kitchen. He was weary of the rolling in of new casks, the tapping of old ones, making room in the cellar, the stocking and re-stocking of bottles, and the dullest of all, the inspection of each one of the mugs for dents or cracks.

      The task wasn’t something that was done every day; no, it was something he did irregularly. To tell it true, only once in a blue moon, say, after too many of the damn things had been broken or smashed during an unruly brawl or by drunken patrons braying off-key patriotic songs and smashing them together in celebration.

      On those occasions when the bar and shelves behind it were fully stocked with cups and mugs, the Le Tonneu de Gambrinus had near a hundred and seventy of the damnable things. And so, it took a great deal of time and patience to examine them all. In other words, it was work; work to take them all down, work to inspect each and every mug, and work to put them all back before patrons started grumbling for round after round of ale and beer and cider. And Faubert detested work.

      Still, he trusted no one else to do the inspection, and while he cursed the drudgery and toil, he went about the necessity of this particular task in order to ensure his little secret about mugs and cracks remained just that - a secret.

      Over the years, the innkeep had collected many mugs in various sizes and shapes. Most were thrown pottery, fired in that fool Laclaire’s oven down the street. Yet some were tin or copper, sold to him by traveling tinsmiths or gypsy traders. These metal tankards were well-worn, bent and dented through use and rough handling, but still sturdy and useful.

      It was the crockery he had to really look after.

      Dents or chips to either type were of no consequence and Faubert’s patrons were typically not the discerning type when it came to the vessels that contained their libations. He was quite convinced that most of them would drink from soiled chamber pots if they were filled with sweet red wine or foaming brown ale. Faubert had no patience for patrons that complained about the imperfect state of their drinking mugs, implying that the flawed mug had somehow tainted or ruined the drink within. That was naught but superstitious nonsense, but still he did not want to lose a night’s drinking from picky lard-brained aesthetes. A dent added character, he would tell the rare complainer, and that chip there? Why it had been made by the notorious Black Fox, highwayman and gentleman thief; indeed sir! Not six nights ago. Tis the truth sirrah! I stake my life upon it!

      But should a mug truly contain a crack…

      A mug that was cracked, well then – that was a different story. A crack unnoticed by him but brought to his attention by a bleary-eyed customer would inevitably result in the clamor for a free mug; nay, two! How dare he, the keep of such a fine and renowned establishment, serve drink in such containers as these! Boissons gratuities! Boissons gratuities!

      The very thought of having to give away drink… it made him shiver with disgust. A cracked mug was Faubert’s enemy during those hours when the tavern was full and coins were dropped like sweet music into the till. But here, before the crowds arrived, while he was checking each and every one – a crack could be Faubert’s friend.

      Faubert categorized each crack by severity.

      Large cracks were easily spotted and obviously rendered the mug useless. Large cracks would cost him not only coin, but also the frustration of having to haggle with that thick and flabby simpleton, Laclaire the potter. Those mugs ruined by large cracks soon joined the pile of shards of other broken tankards out behind the inn, near the compost heap. In the lazy heat of the late summer he would take his riding pistol out and use the shards for target practice. He did not score many hits, either due to poor aim or too much drink, but it helped to pass the time.

      Medium-sized cracks could possibly be repaired, but that would necessitate yet another haggling session with the aforementioned idiot Leclaire – and so those mugs with medium sized cracks also found their way to the pile of shards by the compost heap.

      A hairline fracture was a different matter however, as they were serviceable, easy to dismiss, perhaps even profitable.

      A thin crack allowed the mug to leak, which meant it would need to be filled more often. And the more ale and wine that flowed, the more coin that would clink into Faubert’s till and purse.

      A thought had stolen upon him these three months past, like a stone in his shoe, worrying back and forth under the skin of his brain until, quite irritated by the damned thing, he had finally resolved to put it to the test and to see if it would bear fruit.

      He had come upon a way to mask the unseen cracks that allowed ale or wine to leak from his mugs. By dripping candle wax over the crack and smoothing the milky white substance to near invisibility, it allowed the mug to patch a leak rather well. But as the night wore on and the heat in the room increased, the wax would melt away and cause the mug to drain unnoticeably. True, it had not yet been that profitable. But Faubert was working on that.

      Which is why he was sitting in the heat of the day, before the evening hordes would descend, scratching his chins and trying to find a way to ensure each and every one of his mugs was cracked; he was, after all, trying to turn a profit. To aid in this endeavor, he had enlisted the aid of his kitchen boy Gilles, and together they had taken each of Laclaire’s mugs and tapped them on the base with a hammer. True they had smashed quite a few, until they found the right combination of where to strike and how hard.

      He hadn’t been entirely certain it would work.

      But so far, Faubert had seen this little ruse play out quite well the past several nights with but six mugs, the hairline cracks at first masked by a thin layer of candle wax, smoothed even thinner by his fat thumb, wax that would melt and disappear in the warm confines of the inn as the night wore on. And so the mug would leak and need to be refilled twice if not three times as often. The clink of the coinage spent was music to his ears.

      ***

      It was true that de Gambrinus during the day was dull and quiet, but in the evenings it was transformed. It’s once seemingly spacious rooms were suddenly cramped and close, filled to overflowing with jostling bodies, music, and noise; the clattering dishes, the banging of fists on tables, stomps of boots on the floor, and a riot of flavors, smells and odors. There was enough din to drown out any conversation not delivered in a half shout.

      Faubert hated the work it took to run the inn, but he lived for the end of the day and the crowds that gathered under his roof.

      While on one hand he was a businessman

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