The Captain set off at a fast canter, but once d’Artagnan caught up with him, the older man rode close enough by his side to be heard over the pounding of hooves and the rush of wind.
“This kind of battle is different than anything you’ve seen before, d’Artagnan,” de Tréville said. “It is far too easy to become overwhelmed by the sights and sounds... the smell of death and blood. You must concentrate on two things—your immediate surroundings and the broader movements of the two forces. Do not become so embroiled in fighting whoever stands in front of you that you allow the enemy troops to surround you and cut off your retreat.”
“I understand, sir,” d’Artagnan said.
“Don’t allow yourself to be unhorsed unless there is absolutely no other recourse,” de Tréville continued. “The fact that our opponents are mounted goes a long way toward negating our strength of numbers. We cannot afford to lose any of our own riders. Trust your mount to help protect you; riding a horse trained for warfare is like having another set of weapons. With luck, the enemy will be mounted on animals that are not experienced with gunfire and explosions, and thus prone to panic.”
As if de Tréville’s words had conjured it, d’Artagnan became aware of the noise of the battle ahead of them as they rode around the curve of the road and approached the church in the center of the town. Passing the hulking structure lit by flickering lanterns in the dark, the two of them galloped through the churchyard and reined to a halt at the edge of the village green. The gradual slope of the land down toward the river made it difficult to get a wide view of the battle in the pale silver moonlight, and d’Artagnan wondered how in heaven’s name de Tréville expected him to keep track of the attackers’ forces once they were part of the mêlée.
All he could see was chaos and death.
“The attackers entered the camp from the eastern edge,” de Tréville said, pointing with the reins still in his hand. “They almost certainly didn’t expect to find any significant opposition, but now they’re forced to deal with the camp or risk encirclement by our forces as they try to get to the Queen. Surrounding them and cutting them off will still be our goal, along with the capture of as many of their horses as we can get.”
D’Artagnan could begin to see the broader movements now, made easier by the fact that almost everyone on horseback was a member of the enemy troops. De Tréville hooked his reins to his belt buckle and quickly checked his various weapons one-handed.
“Come,” the Captain said. “We will attack on the north flank and see if we can help turn things in our favor before they reach the center of the encampment.”
D’Artagnan nodded, feeling his nerves sing at the prospect of action. De Tréville guided his horse toward the fighting with knee and spur, pistol held steady in his single hand. D’Artagnan drew the first of his two arquebuses, moving in close enough to get a clear line on one of the riders near the rear of the enemy’s spearhead. Breathing out, he steadied the sights and pulled the trigger. The man fell an instant later, clutching his shoulder.
De Tréville followed suit, shooting another rider as d’Artagnan replaced the empty gun in its holster and pulled out a loaded one. His second shot missed, and he silently cursed the darkness and his own lack of skill. A shout within the enemy’s ranks alerted the other riders to their presence as de Tréville shot another soldier from his horse. Several men broke away, galloping straight at them.
D’Artagnan’s heart pounded against his ribcage, and beneath him, he felt Rosita swell up as if she had grown two inches taller in an instant. The Spanish mare gathered herself over her haunches, sweeping her ears back flat against her head and dancing lightly in place, poised to charge. Remembering what the Captain had said about a battle-trained horse, d’Artagnan drew his sword from its scabbard, dug his heels into the mare’s sides, and yelled “Hyaah!”
Rosita leapt forward into the fray as if shot from a cannon. The lead horse shied sideways as she bore down on it with ears pinned back and teeth bared. Not having been prepared for the strength and speed of his horse’s charge, d’Artagnan swung clumsily at the rider, managing to slice the other man’s thigh. The soldier screamed and curled sideways around the injury, half out of the saddle. Beside d’Artagnan, de Tréville’s stallion squealed and struck out with flailing hooves as two horses closed on him. One man slid off his horse when the animal reared in fright, and fell under the trampling hooves with a cry; de Tréville dispatched the other with a vicious sword blow to the junction of neck and shoulder.
“D’Aumont’s forces! Rally to me!” de Tréville bellowed, as d’Artagnan swung Rosita’s haunches sideways to slam into the man he had wounded in the thigh, now limping toward him with a dagger in one hand and a pistol in the other. He twisted in the saddle, piercing the man through a lung as he stumbled from the impact with the mare’s muscular hindquarters.
Their own forces were still spilling out from the tents, half-clothed, as the men who had been sleeping before the attack strapped on weapons and emerged to join the fight. D’Artagnan tried to heed the Captain’s advice, combing his gaze over what he could see of the battlefield between defeating one opponent and engaging the next. It appeared from their vantage point that the mounted forces were intending to sweep through the camp in broad ranks riding abreast, with an advance guard of a dozen or so attempting to pierce deeper into their territory and split the men fighting on foot down the middle. Several riderless horses milled around in a panic, their instincts keeping them with the herd despite the noise and chaos.
“D’Aumont’s men! To me!” de Tréville shouted once more, and this time a motley collection of half-dressed soldiers heeded his call, forming up on either side of the two riders. “Attack their flank—kill their horses if that’s what it takes!”
The men raised their swords with a chorus of ragged shouts and plunged forward, following in the wake of de Tréville’s charge. Caught unawares, d’Artagnan found himself a few strides behind the rest as they were swallowed by the opposing forces, and within moments he was separated from them. The moon disappeared behind a cloud, throwing the battlefield into deeper darkness until the screams and clanging of swords seemed all-encompassing. Apprehension clawed its way up d’Artagnan’s throat when the silver moonlight brightened once more, and he realized he had lost sight of his comrades behind a knot of enemy riders who were trying to surround him.
He parried clumsily as a blade thrust toward his stomach. Rosita crow-hopped beneath him, kicking out viciously at a horse approaching from behind and causing it to veer away. D’Artagnan held on tightly with his knees as the mare weaved sinuously underneath him, twisting like a snake. He was viscerally aware that a fall right now would mean instant death. His sword scraped against another opponent’s coming at him from the side. He jerked the man’s blade downward and struck out wildly with the pommel of his rapier, feeling a satisfying thud of metal against flesh and hearing a pained grunt. Disoriented, he whirled Rosita in the direction that he thought the Captain and the others must lie, urging the mare forward between two enemy riders. Rosita lunged at one horse, her teeth sinking into its shoulder as it tried to scrabble sideways away from her. D’Artagnan ducked as the other rider swung a blade at his head. The man swiveled his sword arm smoothly, slicing low this time even as d’Artagnan aimed a thrust at his stomach.
Rosita squealed and shuddered beneath him as the man’s blade sliced across the point of her right shoulder, while d’Artagnan’s rapier slid into the man’s belly. He wrenched it free and suddenly found himself in a little area momentarily clear of fighting. He leaned forward to look at the mare’s wound. It was too dark to see details, but the trail of dark blood running down the silver-gray hide was only a couple inches wide at the top and she did not seem to be limping.
D’Artagnan quickly turned his attention back to his surroundings. He still couldn’t see de Tréville and the men that had rallied to him. Off to his side, he heard shouts and cursing. Several dead and wounded horses lay tangled at the
edge of the clear space. Beyond them, three men on foot fought another man, who whirled and parried as elegantly against his opponents as if they were sparring for sport in a training yard somewhere, rather than the midst of a bloody battle.
One of the men fell with a gurgle at the same instant d’Artagnan recognized the curl of the single feather on the lone swordsman’s hat. Aramis. D’Artagnan bit down on the urge to call out to him, not wanting to distract his friend while he was still outnumbered. The musketeer had a cloak or blanket wrapped around his left forearm and was using it as a rough shield to block the second man’s wild swipes while he engaged the first with his rapier. D’Artagnan started toward him, hoping that the fighters would pause long enough that he could call out and identify himself without putting his friend at risk. Otherwise, Aramis might assume that he was one of the enemy in the dark, because he was mounted.
Rosita danced sideways nervously as they approached the pile of groaning horseflesh on the ground, and d’Artagnan caught a glint of moonlight on metal from within the tangle of limbs and bodies. His breath caught in his chest as he made out a rider—his leg trapped under his fallen mount—steadying a pistol, aimed at Aramis. Without thought, he gripped his sword between his teeth and scrabbled for one of his own pistols, still hanging loaded at his belt. Steadying Rosita with reins and knees, he sighted along the barrel, exhaled through his nose, and pulled the trigger with a silent prayer.
* * *
Want to read more? The Queen's Musketeers: Book 3 is available now!
Other titles in this series:
The Queen's Musketeers: Book 1
The Queen's Musketeers: Book 3
The Queen's Musketeers: Book 4
The Queen's Musketeers: Book 0 (Prequel available exclusively to list members; sign up for immediate access)
Glossary of Period Terms
Arquebus. A shoulder-fired gun with a medium barrel length, similar in size to a modern rifle.
Braies. Knee-length, linen undergarments worn by men; usually held closed with lacing at the top.
Bubo. A swollen lymph node that often resembles a large blister and usually occurs on the neck, armpits, or groin. Buboes are a symptom of several diseases including the Black Death, or bubonic plague.
Caliver. A shoulder-fired gun similar to an arquebus, but with a standardized bore diameter which allowed for standardized bullets.
Cat o' nine tails. A whip with nine slender lashes, designed to inflict pain and break the skin during corporal punishment.
Doublet. A man's snug-fitting, buttoned jacket, usually waist or hip-length and worn over a loose linen shirt.
Jerkin. A short, close-fitting leather men's jacket without sleeves, worn over a doublet.
Main gauche. A dagger designed to be used in the left hand, in conjunction with a sword held in the right hand. Useful for attacking, parrying, and trapping an opponent's sword. Also called a parrying dagger.
Match cord. A slow-burning fuse made of twine or cord, used in the firing mechanism of matchlock weapons like muskets. Also called slow match.
Musket. A long, smooth-bore, muzzle-loaded firearm designed to be fired from the shoulder with the barrel braced against a tall fork.
Pistol. A short-barreled firearm designed to be held in one hand.
Rapier. A slender, long-bladed sword with a sharp point and an intricate hilt. Used mainly for thrusting attacks.
Book 2: The Queen's Musketeers, #2 Page 21
