Book 2: The Queen's Musketeers, #2

by R. A. Steffan

  With a deep, centering breath, he entered the stable and counted the horses, all standing saddled and tied to the wall. In addition to the eight animals owned by the original group from the castle in Blois, there were two belonging to M. Rougeux and half a dozen that apparently belonged to some of the villagers who had sent their sons along to help with the cause. D’Artagnan gathered the first group of six horses into a string, taking a brief moment to rest his forehead against his father’s pony’s neck and scratch underneath the pale mane, before feeding Grimaud’s mare the crust of bread that he had, out of habit, thrust into his pocket for her during his meal in the house earlier.

  He gathered seven more animals into a second string, leaving only Rosita, de Tréville’s horse, and Porthos’ horse. The old soldier returned as d’Artagnan was mounting Rosita, holding the rope connected to the lead horse of the larger string in his left hand.

  "Good," de Tréville approved, looking over the arrangements. "Now, I have four bombs in my possession. I want you to take two of them. Have you ever used one before?"

  D’Artagnan shook his head, and said, "I’d never even been around one until the attack in Blois, sir."

  "No matter. Put them in your saddlebag. Do you have match cord?"

  "Yes," d’Artagnan replied. "There’s a length of it on my musket."

  "Good," said de Tréville. "Keep it lit and smoldering at all times. On my order, be ready to light the fuses on the bombs and throw them as far into the mass of opposing forces as you can. If it comes to that, I will attempt to take out the leaders of the group with my two bombs, while you cause as much damage and confusion within the ranks as possible with yours."

  "I understand, sir," d’Artagnan said, once again impressed with de Tréville’s seemingly endless supply of cunning and resourcefulness. "Do you think that will turn the battle in our favor?"

  "I think there’s only one way to find out," de Tréville answered.

  The older man handed him the ugly metal spheres one at a time, and d’Artagnan stowed them where he could reach them easily. De Tréville mounted his horse, holding the reins in his teeth as he organized everything one-handed and took the rope for the second string of horses from the stable boy, looping it once around the pommel and tucking the free end between his thigh and the saddle so that his good arm would be free for other things.

  The pair rode out side by side, leading the horses behind them down the driveway and onto the main road. D’Artagnan ran an eye over the animals, pleased to see that Grimaud’s mare was noticeably less lame than when he and Athos had arrived the day before. The sky was just beginning to lighten in the east. They rode in silence. D’Artagnan’s nerves began to flutter as his focus drifted forward to what they would soon encounter, and his right leg jiggled lightly in the stirrup in anticipation.

  It took only a few minutes to reach the chapel. Fires and lanterns blazed around the building, with men gathered in small groups around braziers, talking in low rumbles. Most of them looked up and quieted as d’Artagnan and de Tréville approached.

  "My friends," the captain said in a voice resonating with authority. "We have important news. Are there others inside?"

  "Yes, some are sleeping," one of the men called back.

  "Wake them and bring them outside as quickly as possible, if you would be so good," de Tréville said.

  Several of the men disappeared into the chapel in response, giving d’Artagnan a few moments to look over the remaining group. They were a motley bunch, ranging in age from slender lads barely out of boyhood to grizzled men older than de Tréville. All carried weapons of some sort—mostly swords and daggers, but also a smattering of clubs and axes, along with a handful of firearms that appeared old and outdated.

  The murmuring started up again as the predawn silence dragged on, but within a few minutes, men began to come out of the chapel in various states of dress and wakefulness. When all was said and done, perhaps three dozen stood in a rough semi-circle around d’Artagnan and de Tréville.

  "Gentlemen, I am Captain Jean-Armand du Peyrer de Tréville of the Queen’s Musketeer Guard." De Tréville’s voice filled the open space of the churchyard, drawing every eye to him and holding it there. "I have the honor of informing you all of the birth this very night of your true King, His Majesty Henry V of France, son of Louis XIII and Queen Anne of Austria."

  A ragged cheer went up through the small crowd, several of the men patting each other on the back and raising their fists in the air. De Tréville let the excitement carry for a bit before raising his voice again into the night.

  "Henry may be King by right and by blood, but this night he needs your protection. An unidentified force of men is approaching the town from the east. Your neighbors—your friends and brothers and sons—stand ready at M. Rougeux’s chateau to protect the infant and his mother... with their lives, if necessary. Our goal is to see to it that they do not have to, by confronting this troop of men before they enter the town and sending them back from whence they came."

  The men in front of them began to speak among themselves again, looking at each other uneasily.

  "Have you leadership among you?" de Tréville asked, and after a short pause, two men stepped forward. One was a gray-haired man with wide shoulders and a scar down his cheek; the other was younger and taller, with clothing and weapons of better quality than most of the others.

  "I am Grégoire Tolbert," said the older man. "I organized the contingent from Argenvilliers."

  "And I am Théophile Patenaude," said the other, "second cousin of the late Comte de Thimerais. I brought men from Montigny-le-Chartif and Combres."

  D’Artagnan’s ears perked at the mention of the unfortunate Comte, in whose barn Athos had been so sorely tested.

  "Then you have another reason to join with us, M. Patenaude," said de Tréville. "The forces allied against the King are also responsible for burning your cousin’s manor house near Illiers-Combray."

  "If more reason is needed, I will certainly take that into account," said Patenaude.

  "Ready your troops, gentlemen, and coordinate with M. d’Artagnan of the Queen’s Guard to get as many as possible of them mounted. The group we are to meet is a large one, but they are mostly on foot, and we are armed with bombs, which should help us to even the odds if it comes to that. I also have extra powder and shot to be distributed amongst those with firearms."

  "Very good, Captain," Patenaude said, as Tolbert touched the brim of his hat.

  "Oi, Tristan! Yves!" Tolbert called. "Get up here and take these horses from the Captain and his man!"

  Two youngsters hurried forward and relieved de Tréville and d’Artagnan of the strings of animals. Thus unencumbered, de Tréville dismounted and moved to circulate among the men, getting a feel for the fighters he would shortly be leading. D’Artagnan stepped down from the saddle to join Tolbert and Patenaude, mindful that the captain had indicated he should organize the mounted men.

  "We have fifteen horses of varying quality," he said without preamble. "The captain’s intention is to present as strong a front as possible. To me, that means mounting the best riders and arming them heavily. What are your thoughts on the matter?"

  "Tolbert," Patenaude said, ceding gracefully to the older man, "you’re the former soldier, here."

  "It’s been a long time since I was in the wars, lad," Tolbert said, addressing d’Artagnan, "but I’d say that sounds about right. Form everyone up into ranks, so it’s harder to make out numbers from the front. From the looks of it, you’ve got plenty of good horseflesh here, along with some that’s more suited to the plough than the battlefield. Put the mounted men five abreast, with the best horses in front and the worst behind. Hide the men on foot in narrow ranks behind the horses."

  D’Artagnan nodded. "That sounds like the best approach. How many firearms among your men, and what types?"

  "Three pistols, four ancient calivers of dubious provenance, and a musket," said Patenaude.

  "With the guns that
the captain and I brought, that means we could arm the first row on horseback with swords and a pistol each," d’Artagnan said. "Are any of these men good enough shots from horseback to justify giving them an arquebus or caliver?"

  The other two exchanged a glance.

  "Probably not," Tolbert said. "Best give the shoulder-fired weapons and the muskets to the foot soldiers."

  "Very well," d’Artagnan said. "I leave it to you two to match up horses and riders while I report back to the captain. The broom-tailed mare is lame; put someone light on her if you can and keep her in the back row."

  "Right you are, lad," Tolbert said, turning to Patenaude. "Come on, Théophile. Point out your best shots with a pistol to me and we’ll get this sorted."

  * * *

  Mist was rising in the early gray light when forty-one men marched out of La Croix-du-Perche, arraying themselves at the edge of town on the road leading in from the east, purposely positioned at the front edge of a copse of trees so that shadows fell on the ranks of men standing behind the horses, obscuring their exact numbers from the casual observer.

  Rosita pawed and tossed her head, feeling her rider’s tension. D’Artagnan forced himself to take a deep breath and release it, unclenching his jaw and shifting his raw shoulders against the fabric of his shirt to calm himself.

  He glanced sideways at the calm, straight-backed figure of de Tréville sitting next to him on his imposing black stallion, mentally rehearsing for the twentieth time the battle plan that the captain had outlined for all of them before they rode away from the chapel. His musket had gone to a middle-aged man renowned for shooting game, and his arquebus to a lad barely old enough to have facial hair, but with a steady hand and a level gaze. He retained only his sword, pistol, main gauche, and a looped length of match cord tied to the front of his saddle, its slow-burning tip glowing orange in the predawn, ready to light the fuses of the two bombs nestled in the saddlebag behind his leg.

  The silence was so complete it seemed like a living thing. Perhaps that was why the sound of marching boots in the distance was so shocking, though they had been waiting for it for the better part of an hour. When the first of the approaching troops appeared around a wooded bend, far enough away that they formed only a dark, amorphous blur in the foggy morning, d’Artagnan’s heartbeat ratcheted up in anticipation.

  A faint murmur of disquiet began behind him as the sinuous beast in the distance continued to emerge, the column of men growing larger and longer, hinting at untold numbers bearing down on their small company.

  "Stand ready, men," de Tréville said, his strong voice washing over them; quieting the mutters.

  The sound of distant feet growing ever closer was broken only by their own breathing—d’Artagnan could hear the soft, ragged sound of one of the younger lads near the back trying to hide tears.

  "Steady, lads," Tolbert said stoutly from his place on de Tréville’s other side. "Remember—we fight for our infant King, and we fight for the man standing next to us."

  D’Artagnan looked at the man next to him—a man who had protected his pregnant Queen despite all odds... despite having only one arm and one eye and a traitor hiding in the nest. A battle-hardened commander, who treated his men almost like sons and hated to see them bleed. He would fight for this man. He would fight for his friends—for his Queen and her newborn son. He checked the match cord one more time and reached back to touch the shape of the deadly metal spheres through the leather of his saddlebag.

  As soon as the front of the approaching column was within shouting distance, de Tréville rode forward a few paces, flanked by d’Artagnan and Tolbert, and roared, "Halt!"

  His voice rang out over the space between the two groups as if it would wrap around the approaching men and drag them into immobility by will alone. The column continued, but there was a commotion as a handful of riders on horseback skirted around the edges of the group to reach the front. Two of the figures conferred briefly before cantering toward them, leaving the other riders and foot soldiers behind. They stopped just out of easy pistol range.

  "What is your purpose in entering La Croix-du-Perche with armed troops?" de Tréville called across the intervening distance. "Identify yourselves!"

  Both men placed their hands on the butts of their pistols, and d’Artagnan tensed.

  "You first!" called the man on the right. "Who are you and why are your men blocking the road?"

  "I am Jean-Armand du Peyrer, Comte de Tréville and Captain of Her Majesty’s Musketeer Guard. Now, state your business!" said the captain, and d’Artagnan held his breath.

  "Ah, well, in that case, you are exactly the man we’re after!" called the man on the left. He gestured back to the main column, now only a short distance behind them. The rows of men came to a reasonably well-disciplined halt, just as the sun finally broke over the horizon, illuminating the same motley collection of clothing, weapons, and bodies that comprised their own company.

  "I am Antoine d’Aumont de Rochebaron, second son of Jacques Aumont. My grandfather fought for Henry IV at the Battle of Arques," continued the man. "I have come with forces from Chartres to offer our support to Queen Anne. It appears, Captain, that we are all on the same side."

  D’Artagnan felt momentarily light-headed at the revelation. Beside him, he was aware of de Tréville slumping slightly forward in the saddle.

  "So many," the older man said in a hoarse whisper. "Dear God, can you really have sent us so many?"

  "Sir..." d’Artagnan said, and his voice seemed to bring de Tréville back to himself.

  He straightened in the saddle and cleared his throat, though emotion still choked his voice as he said, "You have answered our prayers, M. d'Aumont de Rochebaron. France has a new King, born this very morning, who needs our protection. Join us in the town, and accept what hospitality we can offer you. You and I have much to discuss."

  fin

  D'Artagnan's adventures continue in the full-length novel, The Queen's Musketeers: Book 3. Want a sneak peek at the first chapter? Keep reading!

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  The Queen’s Musketeers: Book 3

  By R. A. Steffan

  Copyright 2015 by R. A. Steffan

  SAMPLE CHAPTER

  Chapter I: July 11th, 1631

  Call nothing yours which you can lose,

  Whatever the world gives, it intends to snatch away,

  Think on heavenly things, may your heart be in heaven,

  Happy is the one who will be able to despise the world.

  ~John Audelay, "Cur mundus militat sub vana gloria," ca. 1426

  IN THE SLANTING LIGHT of the midsummer evening, the village of La Croix-du-Perche was transformed.

  Tents littered the village green like a vast herd of strange, sleeping animals, flaps fluttering lightly in the breeze. The buzz of voices and the clatter of pots being hung over cooking fires were punctuated by the occasional bark of raucous laughter as Antoine d’Aumont’s troops amused themselves with drinking and gambling.

  D’Artagnan moved among the tents and people, stopping here and there to introduce himself and inquire if the men’s needs were being met. He was still struck at odd moments by the surreal quality of his surroundings. After laboring for months against near-insurmountable odds, it was almost impossible to believe that deliverance had appeared so suddenly and unexpectedly for their small group.

  The Queen—still recovering from giving birth the night before—had smiled a radiant smile, a single tear sliding down her cheek when d’Artagnan and de Tréville returned to report that almost three hundred men had joined their cause. D’Aumont’s militia was no cobbled together force raised in a day. The nobleman, whose family had supported the house of Bourbon for generations, had been quietly gathering troops since the assassination of King Louis’ treacherous younger brother and the ascendancy
of Isabella of Savoy’s infant son Francis III to the throne.

  Unlike the slow trickle of local men and boys from La Croix-du-Perche and the surrounding villages, d’Aumont’s forces were supported by a convoy overseen by dozens of camp followers—wives and sisters, boys too young to fight, and a smattering of old men. The wagons and carts of supplies had been trailing in throughout the day, laden with burlap sacks of grain, kegs of wine, piles of produce, cages of squawking chickens and geese; even the occasional fat pig.

  D’Artagnan was fascinated by the management and coordination involved in maintaining such a force at a time when many had difficulty merely putting enough food on the table for their own families. He knew little of Chartres, but it was clearly a much larger city with greater resources than the towns near where he had grown up and through which he had traveled on his journey from Gascony. The one thing the small army lacked was horseflesh. Only d’Aumont and his lieutenants had been mounted; the rest of the men were on foot. And while there were a few draft horses pulling supply wagons, most of the motley collection of conveyances were hauled by asses and oxen.

  To be fair, additional horses would only have increased the need for heavy supplies like oats and hay. Again, d’Artagnan shook his head at all of the decisions involved in raising troops for battle. De Tréville had chosen him to act as a liaison with the new men, and he silently vowed to absorb as much information on the subject as he could from both his captain and d’Aumont, so that he could become more useful to the Queen’s cause.

  A hat with a familiar curled feather caught d’Artagnan’s attention across an open space to his left as he continued through the camp, and he turned to look. Aramis was seated with several other people in front of one of the larger tents, bottle of wine in hand, speaking to a handsome middle-aged couple. The woman was lithe and olive-skinned, with a simple braid of thick, dark hair trailing almost to her waist. The man was pale and muscular, with high cheekbones. Streaks of silver lined his sandy hair and meticulously trimmed beard. The casually possessive hand he rested on the woman’s lower back spoke of a husband and wife, or at least a man with his long-time mistress. Both of them laughed loudly at something the chevalier had said.